


Almost But Not Quite

by rinnya



Series: Supersede [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes Died Falling From The Train, Domestic Avengers, Domestic Fluff, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Crack, Gen, Humor, Identity Porn, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Non Captain America: The Winter Soldier Compliant, Non-Explicit Sex, Non-Graphic Violence, Non-binary character, Porn with Feelings, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Clint Barton, Protective Natasha Romanov, Protective Sam Wilson, Protective Tony Stark, Sass, The Winter Soldier Is A Different Person, protective winter soldier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-06-16
Packaged: 2019-05-09 09:56:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 33,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14713868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rinnya/pseuds/rinnya
Summary: The Winter Soldier is NOT Bucky Barnes. They are completely two different people who just happen to very very similar. Bucky Barnes died on the mountains 70 odd years ago, and the asset grew up alongside the widow in the Red Room.That doesn't stop Steve from dropping the shield, or the asset from fishing him out of the ocean, or them falling in love anyways.





	1. Chapter 1

The asset stares at the picture of the man who almost shares its face, on the wall of the Smithsonian.

Two days ago, captain america dropped his shield while ugly-crying about a man named James Buchanan Barnes, which the asset has never fucking heard of in its life. Of course, having your opponent who was coincidentally the greatest chance SHIELD had against the asset and HYDRA’s nefarious plans stop fighting to wail about someone or another, tends to leave an impression, as well as a feeling of overwhelming curiosity. And with HYDRA gone and the asset being an asset to no one but itself, it can certainly take some time to go touristing, a luxury it never got to indulge in despite having visited almost every country.

For some HYDRA related reasons. Ahem. 

Thus led to the asset, standing awkwardly and studying one James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes. It can see the resemblance, and how a quick glance or some other might make one person, super soldier or not, think that his best friend came back from the dead. But the jawline was wrong, slightly off, and their eye colours were just a few shades different - although that might be attributed to the fact that there were barely coloured pictures when James Barnes was alive. 

The asset had a dimple on its left cheek, thicker eyebrows, and its ears were slightly larger than its apparent doppelganger. And it stood a whole half an inch taller, although the serum made captain america shoot up who knows how many, so it thinks the discrepancy can be forgiven.

HYDRA has, or rather had, the capability to do many many evil things like implant memories and take them away, the asset does not see the practicality of taking one James Buchanan Barnes and performing extremely minor plastic surgery on the man to turn him into the asset. Neither does the asset think that HYDRA would go to such extent to alter memories - it very clearly recalls it’s Red Room days, training and fighting and occasionally facing the widows in mock battle, whose numbers have dwindled down to just one widow, who had been and is currently the best.

The asset frowns at the picture of the captain and James, who were laughing and facing the camera, looking the way best friends were supposed to look.

Not that the asset knew anything about how best friends were supposed to look, anyhow. 

The asset thinks for a moment. It’s a cold-blooded and merciless assassin in its own right, who has many documented murders under its belt and a kill streak of important people longer than, well, anyone else alive, because the widow defected early which was a shame, honestly, but it can see her logic, unless you counted the US government collectively, which was a completely different scenario.

But never let it be said that the asset was heartless. It thinks of captain america’s sad looking face, arms braced and completely ready to let it kill him, just because he thought that the asset was his long dead buddy. Captain america had a really effective kicked-puppy look, because not only did large sad blue eyes work for the asset, they worked wonders, which was what made the asset jump over the rail to fish the captain out and also google about his best friend, who apparently went by the world’s stupidest nickname.

Anyways, heartlessness, or lack thereof. 

If the widow deigned to befriend the captain and defend him so willingly, then there was something to be admired about the man that the widow obviously saw. While the widow was not one that the asset would personally take friendship advice from, given their past brief interactions that did not end well for either of them, it knew who she was and trusted her judge in character - if she thought that the captain was a worthy man to ally with, then the asset thought he deserved at least the benefit of doubt.

The asset thinks that it’d talk to the captain, to clear this between them. That it was not James, and while its job would be far easier, it would rather the captain fight back, should they have to meet on the battlefield again. At least a little, because its been a while since there was actually someone capable of matching the asset’s raw strength and it would like some entertainment before it inevitably beat the captain to a pulp.

\--

Captain america stops abruptly, slowing from fifty three miles an hour to zero in the span of two seconds, heels skidding on the pavement. It makes the asset wince.

“Didn’t I shoot you three times a week ago?” The asset says, stretching out on the park bench. There was nothing wrong with captain america, physically, running at full speed one week after removing three bullets from his gut. But mentally, what is this man thinking? Because the asset is very well aware of its own healing factor and could spring back to tip-top fighting shape a quick four days after getting shot, but that was under HYDRA’s watchful and demanding eye, and there was no goddamn way that it would do something like actual physical exercise had it had its own free will. 

The asset would milk the injury for two weeks, at the very least. Not like it was going to get fat, not with the serum.

“Bucky?” Captain america says, and he looks teary eyed. Shit.

“Nope, not him,” the asset says.

“Bucky, you are him,” captain america says, large blue eyes wide and bottom lip jutting out like a petulant child - a cute petulant child, the asset acknowledges begrudgingly.

“You’re James Buchanan Barnes, and you’re my best friend,” the captain says, the corner of his eyes suspiciously glistening in the sunrise, and the asset thinks that he’s about to start reciting the entire speech that the narrator at the smithsonian had droned on about on repeat, about the only Howling Commando that died in battle.

“No, I’m not him,” the asset says, emphatically, “I’m literally, genuinely, actually, not your friend.”

And then it winces, because the captain’s eyes are wider and wow, they’re incredibly blue, but also captain america looks like he’s about to start bawling in the middle of the New York Prospect park jogging trail and the asset doesn’t need this on its conscience. 

Cold blooded assassin or no, the 5am world doesn’t need to see it make captain america cry. Who makes captain america cry? Assholes, that’s who. The asset was an assassin, which could be counted as a particularly asshole profession, but in its defense it was under HYDRA, and it thinks that the asshole part of its personality was a HYDRA characteristic and therefore, whatever’s left of a human in the asset was asshole-free and had no reason to make captain america cry.

Well, I tried, widow, the asset thinks, leaping over the rail and ignoring indignant shouts mixed with sniffling and unmistakable sounds of sobbing from one very sad captain america. Wasn’t its fault that captain america burst to tears by a park bench. 

\--

Life, the asset thinks, is a bitch.

Life has led the asset on a one way trip, from Russia and the Red Room to America and their namesake captain, who was currently staring up at him with impossibly long lashes and hurt eyes that resembled the dog’s from three streets down from his safehouse who the asset had surrendered half its lunch to for the past week. 

“Bucky,” captain america honest to god whines.

“I’m not Bucky. Don’t call me with that stupid name,” the asset says irritably, because how many times do you have to get it across, that it is not some long-dead person who fell of a goddamn train.

“You are him,” the captain insists, “you’re still him, on the inside. No matter what HYDRA did to you-”

The asset lets out a long theatrical sigh.

Captain america seems taken aback by the dramatics, and the pause in his sob story and impressive pitch about his best friend presents an opportunity to the asset, who takes it. It says, “look, I am actually, genuinely, not James Barnes. We have similar facial features, but we are not the same person. At all.”

Captain america blinks. 

The asset wants to groan. And knock its head into the wall. And write a strongly worded letter.

“Look,” it says, “James Barnes is dead. He and I are different people. I just happen to look a lot like him.”

Captain america blinks, again. “Really?” He says.

“Yes,” the asset nods, and judging by the look on the captain’s face, he almost believed the asset. 

Well, almost was good enough.

There was no other reason to hang back and schmooze with captain america, even if he was hot and had pretty blue eyes. The physical appearance of its targets never affected its mission, after all, and while it might be inclined to get some sexual pleasure before offing its targets, there was no current mission imperative that required captain america dead. Furthermore, while tempting, fucking captain america would have rather annoying consequences, if it meant the widow biting to the end of its tail like a leech. She never liked anyone messing with her allies.

Being said, the asset picked up its pace and weaved seamlessly into the crowd, ignoring a panicked “Bucky wait!” Which meant that the asset had not successfully drilled the idea that it was not James Barnes into the captain’s head.

Ugh.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who pointed out the multiple fic mistake! Oops.

The widow slides into the bar seat across it, scowling.

“Widow,” it acknowledges, raising its half empty glass of bourbon. The knockoff serum running through its veins means a whole lot of alcohol is needed to give it just a bit of a kick, but it still indulges in the taste.

“Stop whatever you’re doing,” she snaps. Apparently it wasn’t a social visit, then. Cutting straight to the chase.

“Doing what?” The asset asks. It swirls its alcohol. There’s a pistol at the widow’s hip and five knives hidden on her body, never mind her mini dress that shows off an impressive amount of cleavage and thigh. It barely gets to wonder how her breasts were not spilling out of the fabric when she says, rather meanly, “Listen, Barnes,” and the asset rolls his eyes. 

“I’m not Barnes,” it says, sarcastically, “you must have me, the Russian citizen whom you have met in Russia, my home country, multiple times, confused with the native American soldier who died seven decades ago.” It slips a bit of an accent into its voice for good measure.

She glares at it, harder. “Listen,” she says again, “I don’t know your ulterior motive in approaching and tormenting Steve, but if you really aren’t Barnes like you say you are, then there’s no reason for you to keep bothering him. He dropped his goddamn shield, you know how much Barnes means to him-”

“You really are gone on that man, aren’t you,” the asset interrupts. The widow doesn’t break her glare but she shifts minutely. The asset’s growing glee shows on its face, and she huffs indignantly, but it already called it.

“God, what is it? His beautiful face? His washboard abs? His stunning personality?” The asset says.

“It’s none of your business,” the widow says, irk evident on her face, “I don’t have romantic feelings for Steve, okay? He’s just a nice guy that doesn’t deserve you making him lose sleep over Barnes and-”

“I really am not Barnes,” the asser says, “we are actually different people who look alike. Doppelgangers. We don’t even look that similar.”

The widow stares at it, deadpan.

Okay. Maybe they do look extremely similar.

“Okay,” she finally says, after an extremely. long pause. The asset downs the rest of its bourbon and she watches it, and it finally says, “you believe me.”

The widow shrugs. “I don’t believe anyone, least of all you.” she says. Fair. The asset will give her that.

“I bet you’ll believe Steve, though,” it can’t resist not saying. She scowls at it again, then slides off the booth and disappears into the crowd.

\--

This time, the asset thinks, Steve finds him. It has nothing to do with this.

“Tell the widow you approached me first,” the asset says.

Captain america pauses, blinks at it like a deer in headlights, then nods slowly and says, “yeah, okay.”

The asset stares at him. Captain america looks oddly out of place, with his awkward posture and the odd baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, and the frumpy jacket tugged over his incredibly broad shoulders. He sinks lower into his seat and fidgets under its scrutiny.

“Go buy something,” the asset finally says, once it is convinced that the captain was completely clueless in carrying out whatever he decided to approach the asset for. 

“What?” 

“This is a coffee shop. Buy some coffee,” the asset tells him, nodding towards the counter. Captain america shrugs a little, fidgeting with his messenger bag helplessly, before sliding out of his seat. The image of a national icon looking mildly panicked at a starbucks is immensely amusing to the asset, who takes the time to look over the expanse of the captain’s shoulders and his butt. 

Captain America walks back, holding a cup. “Bu-” he starts, and the asset levels him with such a look that he falls silent.

“What do I call you?” The captain tries again. The asset thinks. It does not have a name, per say, or a cover that it particularly feels like taking up, at the moment. It thinks that it is its way of a rebellion, of sorts - the Red Room and HYDRA had him play many roles, all with different names and faces, and it doesn’t particularly feel like trying to act as someone else. It could be itself, for these moments, even if it doesn’t have a name. Better than taking a name that wasn’t its.

“Asset,” asset shrugs. Captain america is appalled at that, looking halfway between wanting to go on a rant about truth, justice and equal rights, as well as to brutally murder every HYDRA asshole that comes in his way. It’s kind of ridiculous, but also unfairly hot.

The captain opens his mouth, looks incredibly angry, then incredibly sad, closes his mouth, and thinks. Then he nods, and says, “call me Steve.”

Huh.

“Steve,” the asset says, “why did you look for me today?”

“I needed,” Steve starts, pauses, stops. He tries again, “I wanted, to ask you for a, uh, favor.”

“A favor,” the asset prompts, when Steve falls silent and stares into his coffee cup. There’s a phone number and a winky face emoticon in sharpie on the sleeve. Steve fidgets again.

“I wanted to ask if I could draw you,” he murmurs, bashful and small, a contrast to the hulking mass of a man who faced him in the battlefield. “You say, you say that you and Bucky are different people, and I’m trying to come to terms with that, I really am, but. But I can’t, because when I close my eyes all I see is Bucky, and when I open my eyes, you’re everywhere,” and he looks so small and vulnerable, curling in on himself. The asset is struck by the sudden need to assassinate anyone who made Steve look this hurt, before remembering that one of them was dead and the other was, well, itself. 

The asset then wonders if the Red Room programmed some sort of instinctual urge to cuddle and pat the hair of any sad looking blond heroes with incredibly large blue eyes. That would certainly explain the widow’s defection with hawkeye and her enamouration with Steve.

“And I was wondering if, well, putting it down in paper would help? I mean, Natasha says that you two are well, different, physically, and I can’t really see it right now, because all I see is Bucky-” Steve takes a deep breath, looks rather teary eyed, and continues, “I just want to get it right - I mean, to get it in my head that you’re not Bucky and that he’s dead and gone and you may look similar but you’re not, and I-”

“Okay,” the asset says, a lot more gently that it would for anyone else, and Steve stills. “Really?” He breathes out a sigh of relief, relaxing into his chair, “you have no idea how much this means to me, thank you so much, I don’t know how to-”

And then Steve seems to catch himself, and straightens his posture. Even across the table, the asset can see Steve’s significant height difference over it - perhaps not that large of a difference, but large enough that it matters and that Steve could stand over it rather easily if he made himself bigger like when he was on the field, instead of trying to sink to the floor and hide inside his shoulders.

“I can, I can just sketch you here? Now? I mean, unless you have other commitments, then we could arrange something else, or would you rather somewhere more private, like, uh, my house? Remember the window you shot through?”

“You still live in that?” The asset stares, incredulous. Who, which idiot who has multiple targets floating on his head, lives in such a poorly guarded and dangerous building? Especially after it had been demonstrated, at close point, how easy it was to break in and shoot through.

“Yeah,” Steve says, awkward. He ducks his head.

The asset blinks once, twice. This national icon was oddly endearing, even if he was pretty stupid.

“Draw me here,” it says, “I’m not going to that shithole you call your apartment.” Steve looks mildly offended at that, mouth gaping, before he shook his head and forced himself to ease his shoulders. He fumbles through his messenger bag, which he refuses to put down - a smart move, honestly, with the asset a few feet away - and he retrieves a sketchbook and a case.

Steve breaks out his pencils, and the asset finds itself drawn to the quick soft lines  being scratched on the paper, and soon ends up nurshing its coffee with its head in his hands, watching Steve bite his lip and stick out his tongue in concentration.

It’s adorable.

The asset stretches out on the chair, watching Steve. He pauses, sticks the pencil in his mouth, runs a finger through his hair, and then chews on the end of the pencil for a bit, before liberating it and continuing to sketch. The asset takes another sip of its coffee, to find out that it’s gone. Steve is still busy working on what seems to be the asset’s jawline, frowning and erasing it and drawing over it again, like he just can’t get it right. The asset remembers that it’s jawline was slightly sharper than James Barnes’, and had a slight notch at the side - enough to make a difference. It watches Steve look increasingly distressed, like he didn’t expect for two different people to look differently, and decides to take Steve’s unattended coffee.

Steve stops drawing to shoot him a deadpan expression, looking distinctly unimpressed. “Caramel,” it says, “hm.” 

“Yeah,” Steve shrugs, “We - um, Bucky and I used to, uh, it was one of the cheaper sweets out there, that you could also make at home. Just heat some sugar. Makes me nostalgic,” Steve admits. “Yeah?” The asset says, chalking it up to a list of interesting things about Steve Rogers.

“Yeah,” Steve said, “sometimes we would get a malt. Uh, milkshake? Um, Bucky used to bring girls to malt stores, get a shake for them to share, sometimes we’d go too, but,” Steve shrugs again, albeit sadly, “it was always weird, two lads sharing a shake looked too, well.” 

He falls silent, and the asset brows furrowed, thinking, before it remembered that the 1930s were a much less liberal time. Steve turns his attention back to his work, looking a little sad and apparently no longer concerned about his caramel macchiato in the asset’s hands. 

It thinks for a while.

Steve finishes the sketch, packs his pencils, and spends an uncomfortably long time staring, his gaze flicking from it to the asset. It lets Steve watch him, stirring the foam on Steve’s coffee.

Then Steve stands, says, “thanks, really,” and the asset frowns and says, “don’t you want your coffee?” 

“You almost finished it anyways,” Steve points out, then slinks out the front door the same way he came in - uncomfortable, awkward, leaking sadness and grief and depression, and it watches him clutch the sketchbook tightly and disappear into the midday crowd. 

The asset frowns, and thinks some more.


	3. Chapter 3

“How did you get into my apartment?” Is the first thing Steve asks, when he flicks the light switch and sees the asset standing with its head cocked, studying the two drawings Steve has pinned up on his wall.

One of them is of James, short hair and a smart coat, smiling at something off the frame, looking slightly to the right. It’s similar to the picture they have at the Smithsonian, of James in his blue army coat, with a hand gesturing in the air.

The other is of the asset, long hair pulled into a bun, strands falling gracefully in front of its face. Its not smiling in the picture, looking at something to its left, and is cradling a coffee mug in his gloved hands.  

“Huh,” the asset says, looking at the drawings. There are obvious differences in both - James is drawn with confident, steady strokes, and the image radiates comfort, like the artist was incredibly familiar with his subject. The asset was rendered with uncertainty, lines marked and remarked over, strokes light but evidently drawn slowly, carefully like a single line out of place might be disastrous.   

It turns to Steve, who is looking out of place even in his own apartment, arms crossed over his chest. He’s shirtless, and it takes a whole lot of the asset’s willpower to keep its eyes at Steve’s face, but its eyes do flick down once, maybe twice, to the arms that are hiding impressive pecs.

Damn, the asset thinks.

“What are you doing in my apartment?” Steve asks, mildly confused but not irritated, wary but not afraid. The asset, for the lack of a better answer, says, “I came to observe some art.” Then for effect, and because there was no point in not doing so, it dragged his eyes very obviously down Steves form, past his abs that were, indeed, suitable of being described as a washboard, and down to his hips where his sweatpants clung loosely. 

Steve blushes. He is a pretty blusher.

“I can see why the widow likes you,” the asset says, and Steve frowns lightly.

Steve opens his mouth, thinks, then closes it. The asset watches as Steve wanders to his kitchen, and he says, “coffee?”

It looks around Steve’s extremely disappointing apartment. “Did SHIELD buy out an Ikea catalogue page for you?” It asks, because there was no other way to describe Steve’s living room and open kitchen as frankly the mildest design ever, as if the world’s most boring interior decorator decided to fulfil their dreams. It seemed that the only Steve-sanctioned decision made was the sketches on the wall, ripped from a sketchbook and stuck on religiously with bluetack. 

“I don’t know what that is,” Steve tells it, “one or two sugars? None?”

“Seriously? You don’t know what Ikea is? Did SHIELD even attempt to assimilate you? Is that why you didn’t know what to do at a Starbucks?” The asset says, incredulously. Even it knew what Ikea is, and it had been Red Room and HYDRA level isolated from society for its entire life. With that, Steve frowns harder, and says, “they did. Uh, sort of. And I know what Starbucks is.”

“No, stop making that coffee,” the asset says, “no. We are going to Ikea now. Go put on a shirt.”

“That’s a waste of coffee,” Steve argues, but he drops in a sugar cube and hands the asset the mug, before disappearing into what it assumes is his bedroom.

\--

“You’re being awfully calm about this,” the asset tells Steve, “when the world’s best assassin that looks like your best friend breaks into your apartment and takes you on a trip to Ikea.”

“As if,” Steve huffs softly, turning to stare at a shelf full of cork coasters. 

The asset frowns. It can hear Steve’s heartbeat, which, creepy as it sounds, was at a steady calm pace, and Steve himself was showing no signs of nervousness or fear. “You are calm,” it says accusingly.

Steve then snorts - unflattering, full out ugly burst of laughter, and then looks surprised when he does. The asset is struck by the realization that that is probably the first time it has seen Steve laugh, through all their meetings. It feels a weird warm feeling inside, and it imagines a little achievement banner pop up like in a video game. 

Achievement: make Steve laugh.

“I meant about the best assassin part,” Steve says lightly, tone teasing, “let’s face it. Natasha can kick your ass any time.”

“Woah,” the asset says, affronted, “excuse you. I am way better than the widow.” It pretends to sound mock offended, just to see Steve huff lightly and turn away, the corners of his mouth quirking up to a shadow of an amused grin. 

“But anyways,” the asset says, “calm. Why?”

“Not going to lie,” Steve says, and the asset rolls its eyes because it would be able to tell anyways if Steve bothered to, “I’m still halfway convinced that whatever that happened so far is all a hallucination and still trapped under the ice in the Valkyrie.” He lets out a pained laugh, and it’s cold and bitter unlike the first laugh, and the asset hates it. 

“What if it was a dream?” It asks, “what if I’m a dream, and this 21st century’s a dream, and one day you wake up back in that room staged to be the 1940s?” 

“Then I hope it’s really the 1940s,” Steve says, “I’d wake up, and Bucky will be alive, and Peggy and the Howling Commandos will be the same as I left them, and we’d have won the war. I’d take Peggy out dancing, and maybe we’d get a malt, and then,” he lets his voice trail off meaningfully. Steve rubs his shoe against the floor, where one large yellow arrow sits in the middle. They’re not blocking anyone’s path, given that it’s in the middle of the workday and the occasional customer strolls by looking lost with a fistfull of free wooden pencils.

“You hate the 21st century this much, huh,” the asset says. 

Steve laughs again, and it’s even more terrible tasting than the last, and the asset thinks it sees a tear that Steve quickly blinks away. “Peggy’s 90 now, and everyone else I know is dead,” Steve says, “even, even my best friend-” He stops, takes a deep breath, and seems to compose himself, but the asset can hear that his heartbeat had quicked into erratic beats, and Steve was lightly trembling. He pulls the baseball cap lower over his eyes, and sniffles.

The asset frowns softly. It scans the store, eyes looking over odd couches and funky lamps, before it’s gaze falls on one of those giant stuffed toys that got thrown over something the asset couldn’t pronounce, despite its grasp of many many languages. It leaves Steve a sad mess to squeeze through the display of chairs, then tosses the bright golden retriever across the displays and into Steve’s hands.

Steve catches the toy. His face turns bewildered, and his nose wrinkles cutely. He holds the dog an arms length away. “Dogs are a man’s best friend,” the asset says in explanation, “It can be your best friend now. It probably won’t die, but if you happen to throw it off a train and regret it later, you can get an identical one to replace it.”

Steve barks out surprised laughter, and wetly giggles, first softly, then a little hysterically. The asset thinks about what it said then immediately wants to knock himself out, or knock Steve out, because what? What the fuck? Getting an identical new best friend to replace an old, dead best friend? Falling off the train? 

Steve stops laughing, but he presses the dog to his chest like it’s precious cargo or something, and grins at the asset, brightly. It’s adorable, and the asset thinks that it is feeling some sort of emotion. It can’t label that emotion right now, but it’s the same warm emotion from earlier, even if it does make its stomach feel a little weird and swoopy, like it’s falling off a train. 

It needs to stop making inappropriate train jokes. Even if it’s in its head.

Steve’s staring at the asset again, eyes sparkling and grin fond, and it’s really unfair, honestly, to have that expression directed at it because Steve Rogers? Smiling softly with a giant stuffed dog tucked under his chin? Gorgeous.

“Or a almost identical one,” the asset says, before it knows what’s going through its mind. Then it’s immediately convinced that nothing went through its mind.

“Yeah?” Steve says.

The asset shrugs. Steve grins again, patting the dog’s head like it’s real or something like that. “You said something about meatballs?” Steve says, and the asset is glad at a change of subject, so it bounds over the couches to land next to Steve and leads the way. 

\--

“Really?” The widow says in greeting, and when the asset looks up she’s sitting across him, arms crossed. She’s not scowling, though, and there’s a weird expression on her face.

The asset sips at its coffee delicately, ignoring her stare. It’s really weird, and it’s slightly unsettled when it can’t decipher the look she’s giving it. 

Then she says, “Ikea? Really?” And the asset doesn’t smother its grin fast enough that the widow catches it, and raises an eyebrow.

“SHIELD did a terrible job,” it shrugs. She narrows her eyes at it, but it’s not hostile, and still with that weird vibe, and the asset’s getting the sense that she’s not sure if she wants to stab it, shoot it, clap it on the back, or hug it.

Incredibly. Unsettling.

“You got him a friend,” the widow says. She smiles oddly, like she doesn’t want to but can’t help it, something that doesn’t reach her eyes but is strangely sincere.

“You mean that dog?” The asset says. She doesn’t mean the dog, and she knows that it knows that.

“Sure,” the widow says. She stands to get up, but turns towards it before she leaves and says, “For the record, I am better than you,” sounding like a petulant child and a petty professional at the same time. 

“Yelena stabbed me before you did,” the asset shrugs, and she does scowl at it this time. There’s no real malice behind it, and it makes the entire situation even stranger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feeling pretty good about the update streak! Hopefully this keeps up!


	4. Chapter 4

“Holy shit,” Steve says.

“Your house has color now. Good job,” the asset tells him. It tips the mini watering can to sprinkle onto the lumpy looking plant on the windowsill, then plops down and stretches on the furry rug that it recognizes from their Ikea trip.

Steve stares at it for a long moment, crosses the length of the hallway to fiddle at his door locks, then turns to glare accusingly. The asset stretches out on the rug lazily.

“Why do you keep coming here?” Steve wonders aloud, but he doesn’t sound particularly bothered, but amused. He wanders to the kitchen, and the asset hears the coffee machine start up.

“Assassins get bored too, Steve,” the asset tells him, and rolls onto his stomach. “Now that my contract with HYDRA has ended, I have nothing to do, and all the money to spend. Assassination’s a lucrative business, robbing HYDRA is even more so, and your security is appalling.”

“Did you have a contract with HYDRA?” Steve asks. There’s the telltale beep of the coffee machine, and the slosh of liquid.

“Nope,” the asset says, “and stop making coffee. We’re going out again.”  

“Couldn’t you have said that before I actually made the coffee?” Steve complains, sounding exasperated, but he drops a sugar cube and sets it out on the coffee table anyways, where the asset has decided to lie besides.

\--

The asset leads them to Prospect park, and they get started on Steve’s usual jogging trail.

“I jog here on mornings with Sam when he’s in Brooklyn,” says Steve, “I met him in DC, when I was doing, uh, SHIELD stuff.”

“I know,” says the asset. It returns Steve’s questioning look with a cryptic smile of its own, and Steve narrows his eyes in suspicion. 

“You should take your dog out for walks,” the asset tells Steve, “golden retrievers need lots of exercise. Best friends are a long time commitment. You have to feed them, buy them toys, make sure they don’t get sad or bored.”

“Uh huh,” says Steve, eyes glinting mischievously, “what do you think I should feed my… dog, then? And what should I do with him, to make sure he doesn’t get bored?”

“The best goddamn gourmet takeout your money can buy,” the asset says, feeling relaxed and happy to play along, “and maybe a race would help prevent boredom.” And then it picks up the pace abruptly, speeding up as far as its supersoldier serum can take it, leaving Steve in a cloud of dust. It barely takes a second before the original supersoldier is hot on its heels, arms pumping and sprinting and not out of breath in the slightest.

They dash past several regular human park-goers, who are no stranger to Steve Rogers running at full speed but are slightly startled by a second person who is keeping up on his heels. They move to the right with no issue. Someone even whistles.

Steve manages to run past the asset, one mile in, saying “on your left” with such smugness and assholery that the asset does the only thing that a sane, logical person would do.

It puts in a sudden, final burst of energy, leaps forward three feet, and tackles Steve Rogers to the ground.

A lady shrieks and jumps out of the way, and a group of teenagers strolling on the pathway stop in their tracks to see two fully grown men crash into pavement, in the loudest and most painful looking takedown in the history of jogger collisions in Prospect.

“Fuck,” the asset breathes, wincing in pain. It almost regrets its decision. Almost.

“I think you broke my head. And my leg.” Steve groans, rolling over. “I have a concussion. Sun’s too bright.”

“The sun’s bright because it’s the goddamn sun, stop whining, you don’t have a con- yeah, okay, you do. Move your arm, Steve- okay, your head’s fine. I’ll stitch it up when we get back. You mind resetting my arm? Right one, obviously. I’ll splint your leg. Oh don’t give me that look, you’ll heal in a day or two, anyways.”

\--

“This is not what I planned for the day,” Steve mumbles over the edge of pillows that the asset has liberated from his room and piled on the couch. The dog, who Steve has officially christened Lion “because Buck is a male deer, and stags are also male deers, and Clint thought I should read the Harry Potter books, and James Potter’s patronus is a stag, and Bucky’s name was James. And James Potter was from Gryffindor, and the Gryffindor mascot is a lion.” “What?” had taken its place on Steve’s lap.

The asset itself was sitting on the other end of the couch, leg bandaged and propped up on the coffee table. It had given itself a fracture, which should be gone in a few hours, but Steve’s clean break on his tibia should be healed by tomorrow, at the latest.

“What did you plan?” The asset asks, flicking through netflix. SHIELD was more useless than it thought they were, because nobody in their thousand people organization had bothered to tell Steve about the hilariously parodic wonders that were modern documentaries about the man himself.

“Not breaking my leg, for one,” Steve says, “or my ribs. Or my-”

“Shh, listen,” the asset kicks Steve’s uninjured calf with its uninjured foot, which earns him a sharp glare and a “Lion wouldn’t treat me this way.”

“This is my favorite part,” the asset says, just when Ancient Aliens expert Giorgio A. Tsoukalos gestures madly at the camera with wide eyes and says, “so how did Captain America really survive 70 years under the ice? The answer is not what you would expect: aliens.”

“What,” says Steve, deadpan. The asset reaches over to slap him to quieten him, not taking its eyes off the screen.

“How can one man go into a state of hibernation so deep that not only does he not age or die, he manages to return to full health a whole seven decades years later?” Says Giorgio A. Tsoukalos gleefully, “we have to go all the way back several hundred centuries-”

“I can’t do this,” says Steve, “please stop. I can’t watch this.”

“No,” the asset tells him, “you are going to sit there and appreciate modern entertainment and the goddamn history channel because you can’t run.”

“I’ve jumped twenty floors before,” Steve muses, looking out his living room window, “you think I can make it with a broken leg?”

“Nope,” says the asset, and it immediately moves to pin Steve’s broken leg down with its own, ignoring soft sounds of protest and a stuffed toy dog hitting its bandages, “we can try, but after this episode.”

“Is he trying to link Erskine’s supersoldier serum to the Great Pyramids of Giza?” Steve blinks at the television.

“Yes,” the asset says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I saw a meme about the history channel having a field day in the mcu!  
> Isit too early for Steve and the asset to bang ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)


	5. Chapter 5

“Is this?” Steve says, eyes wide and twinkling. 

The asset stirs the drink with its straw and takes a loud, obnoxious slurp. It watches as Steve takes a tentative sip, before his face visibly brightens and he starts happily drinking his malt milkshake.

“Took me a while to find somewhere that still makes these,” the asset says, watching Steve lick foam off his straw and wow, that seems awfully like Steve’s trying to lick something off something else, and the asset turns away because man, how long has it been since it got laid? 

“Everywhere’s about fancy frappes and hipster whatevers now,” Steve agrees, oblivious to the assets problem as he keeps sucking on the straw and wow, wow. 

Wow. 

“Where did you learn that word?” It says, crossing and uncrossing its legs, hoping it’s voice doesn’t sound strangled. Steve blinks, and is this the first time it notices his eyelashes? Does Steve use mascara?

“Clint, and Tony,” Steve says, frowning to see that he has finished his malt, and he makes a soft whine that goes straight to the asset’s dick when it hears it. Steve stands and the asset takes the opportunity to admire the swell of Steve’s ass, as he stands at the counter to order what seems to be another three shakes. The cashier is giggling, flipping her ponytail and batting her eyelashes that are not as nice as Steve’s, and smiling that smile which is also not as nice as Steve’s, and scribbling a phone number onto a receipt with a handwriting not as nice as Steve’s.

The asset crosses its legs again. Steve slides into the seat with three glasses and starts to use the straw, again, a happy flush on his face that is the asset is hoping is not because of that waitress, and its belly does a weird little thing when Steve grins at him, large and bright.

Hah, the asset thinks, and it glares at the waitress, who’s staring longingly at Steve, still obliviously stirring. “Oh my god this is the best,” Steve says, “Malt’s the best. You’re the best.”

“I am,” the asset agrees.

Steve pauses in his drink, looks up at it, then grins deviously. The asset is, for the lack of a better word, surprised, because devious is not an expression it imagines on Steve, but now it can see it, Steve’s face smirking before he does something incredibly mischievous or stupid. It thinks it understands the widow’s crush a little bit more. Just a tiny bit.

“I don’t see how you’re the best at anything,” Steve says, shrugging a bit, and he sounds innocent in the way that is not innocent at all. The asset narrows its eyes warily. 

“I’m the best at assassinating,” the asset says, “and at assimilating you to the 21st century, it seems. And at decorating your house.”

“That’s a very weird list of achievements to have,” Steve thinks aloud, “and you’re wrong, anyways. Natasha’s better at assassinating, Sam and Clint have helped me with more pop culture references than you have, and I decorated my house.” He pauses, then concedes, “I’ll give you best Ikea guide I have. But you’re the only Ikea guide I have, so you’ll also be the worst, if you want that title.”

The asset scowls.

Steve looks at him, lips still around the straw, sucking. He bats his eyelashes, and it’s supposed to be innocent and all but it’s just sending the wrong messages right now because all the asset wants to do is very not innocent things. There’s a twinkle in Steve’s eye, challenging, and it’s probably been a whole half a year since the asset’s stuck its dick in anything. It briefly debates the pros and cons of propositioning Steve in the middle of a diner, because Steve’s the most entertaining person in its life currently and a rejection would probably mean that the asset will never see Steve Rogers in its goddamn life again, and that possibility is boring enough that almost kills its arousal.

It’s in the middle of wondering if Steve is straight, when Steve tilts his head and looks at the asset from half-lidded eyes and slowly licks his lips.

“I’m the best at sucking dick,” the asset snaps, rather harshly, before rational thinking catches up to its lizard brain and it briefly considers shooting itself in the head with the pistol in its jacket. The cashier makes a very high pitched sound, and Steve’s mouth drops open.

“You have a case study countering my point or not,” the asset says, looking determined, because Steve hasn’t slapped it or run off and the cashier’s hand is over her mouth and there’s no way out of this situation now, it’s dug a hole and now it has to lie in it, or lie with it, if the way Steve’s cheeks are turning redder is any indication. The other feasible alternative is in his hidden jacket pocket, and the fourth is a window.

“I don’t even have a case study supporting your point,” Steve manages, and the asset takes one of Steve’s malt shakes and sucks slowly, watching Steve watch his lips with nervous wide eyes. There’s another squeal from the cashier, but it feels Steve cross his legs under the table, so it pays her no mind.

\--

They’re barely through Steve’s front door when the asset picks him up, carries him the short distance from the front door to the living room, and throws him on the couch. 

“There’s a giant window behind us,” Steve says, strangled, and the asset snorts before tugging at Steve’s belt. It comes loose, and it tosses it aside before popping the buttons on Steve’s jeans.

“We’re on the twentieth floor,” it says, “and nobody’s going to shoot you. Not with me here.”

“Confident, aren’t you,” Steve snarks back, voice trembling, which is honestly impressive, given that he has a grip on the couch and another hand tugging at the asset’s hair, and it already has his lips on the hard line of Steve’s cock against his underwear. The last person the asset got in this position had lost his capacity for any language by the time his pants went past his ankles. 

Steve gasps, “God,” as it licks a long stripe along his erection, and that’s the last clearly enunciated word for the next hour, because refractory periods affected by the supersoldier serum is a fun thing to explore with.

\--

Steve’s a trembling mess under the asset, and he bites down hard onto it’s shoulder as he comes, sticky and messy into its hand.

“Hmm,” the asset says contentedly, and Steve makes another pitiful sounding noise. It lost its shirt sometime past the first orgasm, and they have relocated to Steve’s bedroom after rolling off the couch and onto the coffee table. Seems like a second trip to a furniture store would be imminent. 

Steve sinks down onto his bed, panting and sweaty. The asset gets a wet cloth to wipe them both and strips the sheets, because that was just appropriate bedside behavior, and it didn’t mind Steve being an uncooperative rock when it remembered who put him in that state. It sprawls onto its back, letting Steve tuck his face into its neck and it says, “so? Am I the best?”

“What?” Steve murmurs, eyes closed, throat hoarse. He looks incredibly blissed out, humming behind its ear. The asset rolls its eyes. Steve is warm, and now they’re both clean, it’s tempted to slide into bed and just stay there.

“The best. At sucking dick,” it says.

“Hmm. Phenomenal,” Steve tells it. Then, “Nat was right.”

“What?” The asset is more awake now. “She was right about what? That I’m good at sucking dick?” How would she know, even if anyone who it went down on was currently alive, which they were not, who would spread that sort of information around? Unless it was something the widow assumed, which would be frankly ridiculous.

“No,” Steve says, “she told me you like me. Said I could even seduce you, if I wanted.”

“Oh?” The asset says. What an interesting turn of events. That certainly explained her earlier visit and cryptic looks. But then, who wouldn’t be attracted to Steve Rogers? Even the widow herself was. It certainly wasn’t hard to see that the asset would, ahem, aesthetically and sexually appreciate him. 

“She also told me not to,” Steve says, warm and pliant, “says that I should keep away from you, heh,” and the asset shelves the thought that Steve is incredibly vulnerable and extremely prone for interrogation. Such information was useless, because there was nothing to interrogate Steve about, and if there arose a case where such was needed, it doubt it would be able to get into Steve’s pants, anyways. 

“Yeah?” The asset prompts, anyways, because it was curious. “So that was a little show you put on for me?”

“Mhm,” Steve says softly, “wasn’t going to. Wanted to listen to Nat, but then you got me the malt. Was good.”

“So malt’s the way to your dick, huh Steve,” the asset says. Steve huffs and snuffles and nods, curling in a little, and the asset reaches to tug the blanket over them. Steve sighs and burrows under the covers, and rolls over to trap the asset’s metal arm under him.

The asset spies Lion sitting on Steve’s bedroom floor, from where they kicked it off in their haste to do naked things. It smiles, softly. Steve’s out like a light.

\--

“Mhfmhfhm,” Steve says. He has an arm slung around the asset’s waist, another underneath it, and was resting his head on its abs. They’re lounging on the couch, in loose sweatpants and a duvet, shortly after waking from their after-sex nap.

“Hm?” The asset asks. It has metal fingers tangled in Steve’s hair. Steve trails a finger thoughtfully along its navel, resting on the birthmark there. It’s in the shape of a, well, shapeless blotch, the size of a thumb.

“Bucky never had a birthmark there,” Steve says. 

“Yeah?” The asset says. “You still mixing us up?” The thought of it makes its stomach ache, a little, like Steve thinking of it as James Barnes was terrible, especially after they’ve been, well, physically intimate. It’s a little ludicrous, to be jealous of a man who died 70 years prior, but it’s it in Steve’s bed right now and not James Barnes, and that distinction had to be made. The asset’s just slightly uncomfortable.

“No,” Steve says, still rubbing the birthmark. His eyes flick to the drawings on the wall, and the asset follows his gaze, and huffs quietly. Steve looks up at him and smiles shyly, which is a bit ridiculous but also adorable, and he presses a feathery kiss to the birthmark.

“I honestly thought you were him,” Steve admits, “and that you were lying to me to get me off your back.”

“What changed your mind?” The asset asks. Steve hums, and says, “drawing you. There was enough of a difference that it mattered. And the fact that you kept calling Bucky James. And when you smashed my head into the sidewalk while running. Buck would never do that, because I was tiny and would probably die if I breathed too hard.”

The asset is amused. Steve knows that it is, and turns back to the television. There's a good show on this time, not that conspiracy theory thing. It's pretty nice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;)  
> Life's a rollercoaster, even for assassins. (Pure fluff can't last forever. Ahem.)


	6. Chapter 6

The widow is pissed today. The asset prefers it from their previous encounter.

She saunters through the departmental store, weaving in and out of clothes racks and store clerks to come to rest by the asset’s side, where it’s holding out a jacket to pretend to check its seams.

“I know what you do to the victims you fuck,” she hisses, venom on her tongue, “you better stay away from Steve, or else.”

The asset scowls at her. “And what? You think I’m going to kill him? Like I wouldn’t already have done that, when he was sleeping in the bed after we-”

“You’re taking advantage of him,” the widow snaps, angrily ripping a piece of clothing from a nearby rack, smoothening it down and holding it in front of her to check in the mirror. Her face is stony, cold. “I wasn’t going to say anything, because you seemed like you were keeping the distinction clear between you and Barnes. And, I’m not going to beat around the bush, you made Steve happy. He was smiling, and seemed more at home. But,” she replaces the jacket for another one with a similar cut, but in maroon, “you’ve crossed the line, winter soldier. You know that Steve loves Barnes-”

“They were never together, they were just best friends,” the asset snaps at her, irritated. Who was she, coming in to accuse him of cheating Steve of his feelings? Like it wasn’t Steve who tried to seduce him first? “I-”

“But he wanted them to be,” the widow continues, and the asset’s mouth snaps shut. What?

“You can’t seriously be this dense,” the widow glares poisonously, “Rogers loves Barnes, asshole. Always had, always will. Homophobia was a big thing in the 1930s, of course they were never together, but Steve loves him! You come in here, wearing his lover’s face, when he’s still grieving and then playing with his feelings. For what? A quick fuck? Maybe it’s been a history book for us, but it’s been three years for Steve. Three years he’d spent crying in the dark, three years he spent with no one from his past left alive,” the widow slings that jacket over her arm and takes another one, hastily unzipping it and shrugging it on.

“The Red Room taught us a lot of things, and I know what your game is. I know how you work, because that’s how I did. But Steve Rogers shouldn’t be part of it, you understand?” She snaps up to stare at him, fearless despite her stature, and takes a menacing step forward. The asset doesn’t back down, but only on principle.

The widow must really be in a contained rage, if she hadn’t noticed that the asset hadn’t said a single word. Her eyes were burning, and she continues, “of course, what do I expect you to know about Steve? You probably read everything from a pamphlet from the Smithsonian. He has many friends, Soldier, and honestly? I thought you could be one too. But right now you’ve stepped out of line, and I’ll tell you right here, and right now,” and she bares her teeth, “Steve has many friends, and if you’re on all our lists? You’re not better than me, and you’re not even worth anything, compared to all of us.”  

\--

The asset is quiet. 

There is a store clerk staring in its direction worriedly, wary of the widow’s outburst and the pile of clothes she threw into its face. But she had already gone, and there was no need to stage an intervention, so the asset silently puts the clothes back into their original positions.

The widow must have taken the maroon jacket. There’s an extra hanger.

It leaves the store and wanders, spying no trace of the widow, but it doesn’t doubt for a second that she has some sort of surveillance on it. The asset weaves through many broken off alleyways and through massive crowds until it feels it’s tails lose it, but the effort is futile because it finds itself nursing a chocolate malt milkshake at a very familiar diner which the widow no doubt has tagged.

Flirty cashier is there, tinted red on her cheeks as she unsubtly watches him fold into a bench. What did Steve say? He and Barnes used to go for malts. It was like a date. Shit. Did Steve think the asset brought him on a date? Granted, they did have sex after, and Steve did make the distinction between it and Barnes, but was the widow right? 

The asset itself didn’t know why it brought Steve here. What did it achieve, spending an hour and a half sourcing diners that still served 1930s milkshakes? Was it truly a pure product of boredom? Of course not, of course this could have been taken as a date. What was it thinking?

But was it a date? 

God, it took Steve furniture shopping. Got him a stuffed toy, like they were at Coney Island. Ran together, like weird fitness couples. They shared a fucking milkshake, had some pretty nice sex. Oh dear god.

“Shit,” the asset breathes. 

Oh god, the widow was right. It shared Steve’s lover’s face and took him on dates and bent him over his couch, when it had no intentions to… What were its intentions, anyways? There was no goal, no mission, not after defecting from HYDRA, who was god knows where. It was bored, and Steve was helping to alleviate that boredom. 

Did Steve have feelings for it? If Steve had feelings for Barnes, and the asset came in to, what, replace Barnes? Woo Steve the way James never did? This was bad. The asset doesn’t want to be Barnes. It doesn’t want to play a cover.

But Steve couldn’t have feelings for it, either. It was, well, the asset. An asset. An asset learning how to be a person. Nobody after the Red Room was a person - even the widow wasn’t a person, even if she tried very hard to pretend to be one. People had friends and lovers and the widow could call herself Steve’s friend, but the asset knew that she would put Steve under her pistol and pull the trigger if need be, in a heartbeat. And so would it.

Would it?

Shit.

Of course it would. Because it wasn’t a person, even though it pretended to be, and pretend-people only had pretend-friends. It didn’t want a name, it didn’t want to be James Barnes, and it most definitely didn’t want Steve to have feelings for it because that was going to be a pain. Troublesome.

Yea. That was it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :(


	7. Chapter 7

It was a fucking asshole, and it was miserable.

The asset had successfully evaded Steve for two weeks, and it was fucking bored, and it felt guilty for being bored, and it felt, for the lack of a better word, lonely. Except the asset wasn’t a person, only a pretend person. Could non-people get lonely?

Yes, it supposed. Animals got lonely. Plants probably got lonely. They release chemicals and stuff to communicate, so they probably needed to plant-talk to other plants. Assets can probably get lonely, too.

Currently, it was lounging on a park bench, sulking. It was rather embarrassing, honestly, sneaking into Prospect and blending into the early morning runners to see Steve run his finishing lap, stopping far enough that the asset looked like a normal park goer instead of a creeper.

Steve stopped by Sam Wilson, and it was far enough that it couldn’t lip read, but Steve’s body posture was exhausted. Not the post-run exhausted, but more tired in a weary way, hunching in on himself, submissive. The asset’s lip curled in distaste, glaring as Sam clapped Steve on the back and seemed to say something, with only succeeded in Steve folding his arms and ducking his head, looking even more miserable than before.

It sees Steve shrug at nothing, shake his head, and head down the other way with Sam, who was rubbing Steve’s back in a way that’s supposed to be soothing, which was honestly unfair. The asset wasn’t trying to play with Steve’s feelings any more than Sam was. Yes, it did, but their intentions were the same, aside from the getting-into-Steve’s-bed part. They both wanted to be Steve’s friend. Or pretend-friend.

It wasn’t it’s fault that it looked a lot like Steve’s late lover, or that Steve was so unfairly hot.

And Steve seemed even more miserable, anyways. It’s a little selfish to wonder if its because of its disappearance. Maybe a little companionship and some dick was good for both of them, whatever the widow says. Since when did the asset listen to what the widow says? 

“Ugh,” the asset says, still glaring at Steve’s retreating back.

“Oh I know, Sonny,” says the little old lady sitting next to him, tossing bits of biscuit to the birds flocking around her feet. “What a man. And to think I missed that, when we went to the same school!”

“Did you,” the asset turns, suddenly intrigued. 

“Oh yes,” the lady nods, her white curls bouncing. “Such a small scrappy young boy, picking fights with anything he found unjust. Why, he stopped a couple of bullies from beating up my brother Mark, but of course got beat up himself! Of course he would become Captain America, I dare say no one else is suitable for the title like he is.” 

It thinks for a moment, about the pamphlet that it did have from the Smithsonian, and a plastic hanger smacking it on the nose. Then it says, “tell me about him?”

“Well,” the old lady says, “Steve Rogers was always ready to fight anyone and anything, and honestly would have gotten himself killed if it weren’t for,” then she squints at the asset and it knows that it’s caught, and she says, “you look a lot like-”

“Yeah,” it shrugs, “I swear we aren’t related or anything. Actually, Steve ran into me a while back and got the shock of his life. I think he almost cried.”

“Poor thing, that boy,” the old lady looks sympathetic, “knows he needs a friend or two. A normal one, not one of those weird Avenger buddies of his.” Then she turns to it and jabs a wrinkled finger into his face, saying, “stop sitting here like a weirdo. Next time you see that young man, be his friend. God knows he needs a familiar face right now.”

“Not sure my face is right for the job,” it says miserably, thinking about the widow again, and the old lady tuts at it and waves her hand. “Now, boy,” she says, “so what if you look like his dead best friend? Be his new alive best friend. Someone who won’t shoot him in the face.” 

The asset barks out a startled laugh at that. How ironic that it was the one, out of Steve’s mismatched friends, most likely to shoot him in the face.

With its dick.

And also with its gun. But also, the dick thing.

“Don’t you think he might mix us up? Me and Barnes? Pretending that we’re both the same person, and not moving on?” The asset asks, because this old lady is surprisingly helpful and it feels much lighter for the first time since the widow screamed at him.

“Well captain america is not stupid,” she says, huffing, “and he can’t mix you two up if you don’t let him. You think twins don’t exist in this world? You can’t replace one twin with another if one dies.”

That was, a good point. Hah, take that, widow.

“Thanks,” it says sincerely, and the old lady hums, and throws more crumbs to the birds.

\--

“Why are you here,” Steve says. 

He looks angry. No, he looks downright pissed.

“I got bored. Assassins get bored,” the asset tells him, aiming for nonchalant and casual, but its mouth clicks shut when it sees Steve’s face fall for a second, before turning back into angry indignance. 

“So I’m just here to kill your boredom, huh,” Steve snaps, slamming a mug onto the kitchen counter. cracking it. He scoffs at the broken mug and just grabs another, to start stirring coffee. “Back here to find a quick lay? Well I charge per hour now, so get-”

“It’s not like that, Steve,” the asset says softly. Its tone make Steve pause, and for a moment the only sounds come from the running water and the beeping of the coffee machine. Then Steve says, just as quietly, voice breaking, “then what was it?”

“I had to,” it winces, “handle some things. I’m sorry. For, uh, leaving. Like that.”

Steve’s shoulders drop. The asset gets up from the couch and walk to Steve, to silently tug him to it. Steve’s shaking lightly, and the asset realizes that he’s silently crying, eyes closed shut and head bowed, hand gripping the counter. It spins Steve around and feels him slump against its frame.

“It just felt like Bucky leaving me twice,” Steve sobs.

It’s like a punch to the gut, a kick to the sternum. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for leaving. I can’t ever be him, I can’t,” the asset says, heart dropping like a stone, mind on the cusp of another inappropriate train joke but chest too tight to think it, and Steve’s arms tighten around him and he says, “I don’t need you to be. Please don’t go.” 

The asset shudders, and it slowly makes it way to the couch. Steve has his face buried in its shoulder, and it lets him cry softly, shaking in its arms, until the sobs subside and Steve looks up, eyes red and face flushed.

“You cry a lot,” the asset remarks, and Steve lets out a choked laugh. He says, “It’s the serum. When they said everything would be enhanced, they also meant my emotions. My body produces hormones at extreme rates, or something like that. Quicker and longer adrenaline rushes and harder hitting crashes, things like that.” He sniffles and rubs his nose and adds, “also my therapist says that crying is a healthy expression of emotion.”

“They got you a therapist?” The asset asks. It rubs along Steve’s spine.

Steve nods against its neck. “I had one to clear me to be released from SHIELD care, and another one to make sure I had no recurring symptoms from being under the ice for so long, like some phantom hypothermia or something. I don’t think SHIELD really cared about the PTSD because practically all their agents had some form of it, anyways.”

The asset scowls at that. 

“I got a third one after Loki attacked Earth. I cried for an hour during the debrief after because of the emotional buildup during the fight.”

“Jesus,” it says. Steve tucks his head back into the crook of its neck and wraps his hands around its torso. 

“Sorry,” Steve says again, “being so touchy.” 

“A side effect of the serum?” The asset asks.

Steve laughs a little, through the tears. “No, you jerk. I just like hugs."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve does like hugs.


	8. Chapter 8

This time, hawkeye finds it.

Hawkeye is already curled up in the large rattan chairs in the coffee shop - bookstore hybrid, nose buried in a book. He doesn’t look up when the asset opens the door and goes to order a frappe, but there's no doubt that he knows that it knows that he’s here for it.

The asset wanders, picking up a book with his coffee, and slides in the seat opposite hawkeye’s. He continues to read, ignoring the asset, so it opens its book too.

The asset is partway in the third chapter when Hawkeye sets his book down.

“Nice book?” He says conversationally.

“Real good,” the asset says, “Fun.”

Hawkeye narrows his eyes slightly. “I’ll check it out,” he says, almost sincerely, and takes a sip of his coffee. Then he says, “so what do you want.”

“I’m not going to murder Steve or break his heart,” the asset snaps, almost meanly. It sets the book down and stares at hawkeye, who stares back, assessing. 

“Look,” the asset says, irritated, “I’m not trying to pretend to be James Barnes. Steve’s not my target, assassination or sexual or otherwise. I’m my own person now and I can make friends too - Look, between the both of us, the widow’s actually the one trained to break hearts. Why don’t you bother her instead?”

And then hawkeye turns to look at him, suddenly soft eyes, with that same weird expression widow looked at him with a month prior.

“I’m not here to give you an ultimatum,” he says, “Steve’s important to all of us, and none of us want to see him hurt.” The asset got the strangest feeling that hawkeye was including it in the us, instead of just the Avengers. 

“The widow and I, all of us actually, will come after you if you hurt him,” hawkeye continues, and the asset briefly wonders how many more mildly terrifying shovel talks it was going to be given, “but we have different philosophies in dealing with things like this, and I’m here to say I’m going to give you a shot.”

“A second one, you mean,” the asset says.

Hawkeye just smiles cryptically. “You’re a sniper,” he says, “stop missing.”

\--

The widow is at the Starbucks it stops at, in ridiculously large earrings and ripped jeans and clicking through her phone with a bored expression on her face, looking like a millennial.

“Whatever,” she says loudly, like she’s talking into her earpiece, but the asset knows that she’s addressing it. 

“Sure, asshole,” she says to her phone, voice harsh and biting, “you pull a stunt like that again, and I’m actually going to murder you. Consider this your final warning,” she pauses for a while, then says, “you think I take taekwondo for fun? Don’t try me, bitch,” and there’s another long believable pause, and she finally says, “yeah okay, see ya later,” which sounds very much like the threat the widow wanted to convey over a fake phone call. The asset gives its name to the barista as “spider”, just to acknowledge her message.

The widow gets up, and the asset sees that the name on her starbucks cup is Kelsey. 

It should get a name. A pretend name, something Steve can scream in bed. If the widow has more than one pretend name, then maybe it should get one, too. Pretend names for a pretend person. Hah.

\--

The asset is sprawled lazily on the couch, watching Steve putter around the house and sweeping up bits of the lamp they smashed. 

It admires the long thin scratches it left on Steve’s back, and the messy blond hair sticking up in odd places.

“I like your dick,” the asset tells Steve, “it’s my favorite.”

“Thank you,” Steve says, raising an eyebrow but nonetheless amused and relaxed. He dumps the bits of lamp away in the trash.

“I’m serious,” the asset says, “of all the dick I’ve had, yours is my favorite. You’re... a little inexperienced but that’d change soon. You have a pretty penis.”

Steve blushes.

The asset stretches its arm out, and Steve lets himself get pulled and falls over it, curling up on the couch. 

“I like that you’re bigger than me,” Steve says suddenly, then blushes again. 

“Steve,” the asset says patiently, “maybe it’s hard to see without a ruler in the heat of things, but between the two of us, you’re definitely the bigger o-”

“Not dick size,” Steve interrupts, definitely a little embarrassed, “I meant, bigger. Than me. Like, you can hold me like this. And I’m smaller than you.”

The asset thinks for a while. It thinks of the Smithsonian, of the widow, of the pictures Steve has pinned on his wall, and of the video clip of James and Steve laughing in the camera.  “Like with Bucky? When you were small?"

Steve shifts uncomfortably. “Yeah,” he starts, “but I know you’re not him, and I don’t want you to think that-”

“I know,” the asset interrupts, running it’s hand down Steve’s spine and feeling him curl at the contact. It wraps both arms around Steve and squeezes. The asset was bigger than Steve, but only slightly, but large enough to be able to tuck Steve into its body, wrapping around him like a blanket.

Then the asset thinks of the pamphlet it threw away, and the old lady at the park.

“Tell me about him?”

“Hm?” Says Steve, warm and blissed, his head in the crook of the asset’s shoulder and legs tangled. 

“Barnes,” the asset says, “James. Bucky. Tell me about him.”

“Yeah?” Steve sounds hesitant and shifty, and nervous. He stiffens, and the asset resumes it’s stroking along Steve’s spine. “Yeah,” the asset says, “he was a big part of your life. I want to know about you. Tell me about him, and tell me about you.”

“Oh,” Steve says, going soft. “Okay.” 


	9. Chapter 9

“I can give you a spare key,” Steve sighs longsufferingly, “or let you in like a normal person.”

“Now where’s the fun in that, Steve,” the asset purrs, stretching an arm to tug Steve by the belt loop to the couch. Steve lets himself get pulled obligingly, huffing in protest when jostled, but falls onto the couch anyways.

“Go make some coffee,” the asset says, when it’s done sucking a hickey into Steve’s collarbone. He says, “so what? You can stop me after I finish making it and say that we’re going out?”

“You already know me so well, Steve,” the asset tells him, with a shit-eating grin. Steve stares at it, unamused, but he gets up to make the coffee with one sugar and then say, “so where are you taking me this time?”

“It’s a surprise,” the asset sings, “we are going to do millennial things. Go put on millennial clothes.” 

“I don’t know what that means,” Steve grumps.

“Ask widow. She was doing millennial things earlier this week.” The asset says. At that, Steve narrows his eyes, and asks, “did she talk to you again? Since the Ikea thing?” 

The asset thinks for a moment. The widow obviously cares for Steve, as does hawkeye. It understood where they were both coming from, so it says, “nope.” 

Steve frowns.

“Skinny jeans,” the asset tells him, “Flannel. A scarf.”

“Clint says flannel makes me look old,” Steve protests lightly. “The scarf will make you look hipster,” the asset reassures.

\--

“You brought me to a movie?” Steve asks. He looks down at the tickets in his hand, and the large sign above his head.

“Don’t look down on it because it’s animated,” the asset tells him, “it’s great. I mean, I haven’t watched it, but it looks like it’d be great. The reviews were amazing. Big Hero 6, like the Avengers. Six people, haha. Animated movies are great now.”

“We had Snow White,” Steve tells it. 

“The first one? Well, this is much better,” the asset says, “come on. No movie experience is complete without unholy amounts of junk food. Sweet or salty popcorn? You like sour patch?”

“I don’t know what that is,” Steve admits sheepishly. It stares at Steve for a long moment, then sighs. “SHIELD did a shitty job reintroducing you to the 21st century.”

\--

Steve’s full on crying by the middle of the movie, and he even has the grace to do it quietly, watching the screen with wide eyes and parted lips and tears streaming down his face.

The asset reaches over and tugs Steve closer, who willingly molds into the it’s arm and sniffles quietly. Tadashi is smiling at the audience, and Steve grips the asset’s arm harder, and it moves closer to let Steve squish his face onto it’s shoulders.

Steve has stopped crying by the time the credits roll, and he quietly sits through the entire closing credits as everyone around them bustle to leave, quietly sniffling something about wanting to appreciate every single person that made this work of art. He is still leaning on the asset’s shoulders.

“Did you like it?” It asks, shortly after manhandling Steve off his seat as the staff start to shoot them suspicious looks for sitting in an empty theatre five minutes past credits. Steve grins at it, eyes bright and twinkling and still slightly red, and he says, “I loved it. It was great.”

“Yeah?” The asset says, “wanna go for ice cream?”

Steve’s phone buzzes. He fishes it out and taps at the screen, and squints at it. “Sam’s asking if I’m on a date with you,” he tells the asset. It thinks for a moment, then asks, “what are you telling him?”

“Are these dates?” Steve furrows his brow, looking confused and hopeful and adorable, “are we dating?”

The asset thinks. Were they dating? It and Steve did a lot of friend things, like hanging out and watching bad tv and going to places. But it and Steve did plenty of couple things too, like make out and have sex. The asset things a term would be friends with benefits, but.

But. It feels wrong. Friends with benefits sounded… a little off. Not enough to encapsulate their relationship, and much too cold and odd.

But were they dating? Did the asset want to date Steve, and did Steve even want to date the asset that was not Bucky Barnes?

Steve looks over nervously, biting his lip. His eyes are wide. The asset reaches over to take his hand, and squeezes it. Steve grins a little, and tries to hide his blush under his cap.

Adorable. 

The asset doesn’t think it’d mind any more of Steve. It’d definitely not mind holding Steve’s hand longer.

If they weren’t dating, they should be.

“We made out on your couch earlier today, Steve,” the asset tells him, amused, “I’m holding your hand right now.” Steve is still extremely endearing and cute. The asset thinks it’d buy him a different baseball cap. Maybe one with the shield on it, that’d be pretty funny.

Steve stares at his phone, types out a message he keeps hidden from it, then says, “ice cream. Then we can go make out on the couch some more.”

“The greatest strategic tactician of the twentieth century,” the asset muses, and Steve shoves it so hard that it almost trips onto the road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg guys I realize the asset needs an actual name but idk what to name them. My internet history probably thinks I'm an expecting mother.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UHM this chapter is a little weird because it switches briefly to Steve's POV then back to the asset's because I didn't know how to transition :( Steve refers to the asset as a "he" with he/his pronouns because the asset's non-binary-ness and/or pretend person-ness hasn't come up in topic between them yet.

“Hey A,” Steve says, sounding apologetic, “I wish we could hang out today, but I have a mission.” 

“Didn’t SHIELD collapse with HYDRA?” The asset squints at Steve, slightly perturbed, “and did you just call me A?” Steve’s putting on his tactical suit, which is a dark blue with a star in the centre and it looks way less ugly than the original monstrosity they made Steve wear in the twentieth century, which had just looked like they stitched the flag up and made him put on booty shorts. 

“Well I’m not calling you Asset,” Steve tells him, “and SHIELD’s, lets just say they’re still operating, but less openly? And the government still needs me for black ops, and to pick through the remnants of HYDRA. I’m surprised that Fu- uh, the new SHIELD Director gave me this much downtime.”

“I shot him in the chest,” the asset scowls.

“And that’s why I said Natasha is the better assassin,” Steve grins. He leans forward to give it a chaste peck on the lips, slides the shield into one of those extremely large folders meant for huge canvases, and then the asset watches him leave the building and enter an embarrassingly normal car. SHIELD’s just trying too hard at this point to blend in.

The asset stands in the middle of Steve’s living room, thinking about how awfully domestic that was, and scowling because Steve never gave it an estimated return time or chased him out of his apartment - which, to be fair, was obsolete because it would break in easily anyways, and because Steve never bothered to change his one single lock. 

Well, Steve’s house was way nicer than that HYDRA safehouse it was currently lounging in. 

And A. A was a really weird pretend name, but, hmm.

  1. Hm. A. 



Hmmm.

The asset has tons of time to kill, so it makes a list of all it’s past aliases. It jots down the 23 names it can remember - some russian, some english, one french and one german. It writes down James Buchanan Barnes, then crosses it out. 

It thinks for a moment. It crosses out it’s real name, it’s first name given by two people who it cannot remember, way before the Red Room, because that was the past and the past should be left behind. It would never earn that name again.

It scratches out the german name, because it has the last name Schmidt, which was also the red skull’s name. Steve would probably get war flashbacks and never touch it again if it had to scream that out in bed. That was a horrifying thought.

It scratches out two russian names and one english, because the widow had interfered with its missions when it wore those names, which just left a bad taste in its mouth. 

Ugh. The asset doesn’t know what to think about the widow. It understands her animosity for it, and honestly, it probably deserved it. She was incredibly hostile towards it, and maybe a few months ago? It would be, too. But getting laid regularly has done wonders for it’s mood.

Maybe the asset should set the widow up on a date. Wait, no. Ew.

There were still too many names to decide. Ugh.

A will do for now, it supposes. 

\--

Steve has one arm supporting Sam, another hand fumbling with his keys, which Natasha plucks from his fingers and unlocks the door.

“You didn’t tell me you redecorated since Ikea,” Sam says, which Steve cannot reply to, because he didn’t redecorate since Ikea. But there he was, standing at his doorway, trying to come to terms with the fact that he was currently in the same apartment he left from a week ago, and failing under Natasha’s sharp gaze and Sam’s raised eyebrow.

“You even repainted,” Natasha says dryly, “great job, Steve.” Then she walks over and plucks a sticky note off the kitchen counter, which are still marble but now outfitted with a tabletop garden of multiple herbs and spices. She raises a flawless eyebrow and flicks the note to Sam, who whistles lowly. Steve grabs it.

“Hey Honey,” says the note, “hope the mission went well! Will be back when your friends leave.” There’s a winky face emoticon, and it’s signed off with a star that had an A drawn over, following the lines. 

Steve blushes.

Sam chortles, and Natasha ducks under Steve’s arm to grab onto Sam’s and say, “well looks like there’s a change of plans. We’ll be going over to Sam’s. There’s a box of condoms on the coffee table, I think they’re for you.” She holds his gaze for a while longer, eyes hard and serious, her gaze absolutely completely disapproving, then she slides a pistol into his hand and pats his back.

Steve doesn’t know where she got that pistol. He’s not sure he wants to know. Russian assassins were terrifying. The asset had removed seven knives from his person while giving Steve a striptease, while he was in jeans and a tank.

\--

The door has barely shut in Steve’s face when there’s a rustling from the bedroom, and the asset decides to saunter out.

“Were you just hiding in there?” Steve accuses. It walks over to pluck the pistol from Steve’s fingers and put it on the counter, then push Steve against the door. “Nothing you can prove,” it promises, and kisses him.

“Hmm,” Steve hums, “why did Nat give me a gun if you could just take it? That's a little weird, especially coming from her.”

“If I wanted to kill you, I wouldn’t need to take this pistol from you,” the asset agrees, "maybe the widow was being nice. Maybe she knew I needed new ammo."

“She told me to shoot you in the head if you came onto me,” Steve says against it’s lips, “I told her I’d shoot you in the face. With my dick. And then she slapped me and told me to never say that again.”

“You’re disgusting,” the asset says. It’s a little proud. It tugs at Steve’s uniform, which is now scratched and dirty and looks like it has been hosed down maybe twice. There’s an already healed cut on Steve’s forehead and what looks like a mending bullet entry wound at his side. “Go take a bath. And prep.”

“Prep what?” Steve asks, and the asset shoots him such a deep heady look that he falls silent. “Prep,” it says, and grins, “everywhere. Google it.”

“I’m not googling that,” Steve says, scandalized, but pulls out his phone anyways.

\--

“Missed you,” Steve says, gasping, fingers digging into the bed sheets, “i did the prep.”

“Yeah?” The asset sounds smug, “that’s great.”

“I didn’t know we needed to AH, prep,” Steve says, then bites down hard onto the asset’s flesh shoulder. It smirks and tugs Steve’s hair, listening to him whine and squirm, as it opens him up with a finger, then two, then three.

“Of course you do,” it tells him, “don’t be unhygienic, Steve. I’m mindful of where my dick goes. Don’t need to do much I’m giving you a blowjob, but better get clean if you want me to fuck you.”

“Ah,” Steve moans, then, “wait, you never do prep when you come over.”

“I already prep before I come meet you,” the asset says.

“Presumptuous,” Steve pants, and then bites down again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the name suggestions guys! Will think about it, haha, A is just a placeholder name because Steve calling the asset "Asset" is weird and un-Steve.


	11. Chapter 11

“Bucky!” Steve screams, “grab my hand! Bucky, no!”

“Steve,” the asset says, panicked. It reaches out but Steve turns, arm outstretched to catch nothing. He is thrashing in the bed, heart thumping and sweating profusely, squirming and kicking and screaming.

“Bucky! Bucky please! I can’t lose you!” Steve’s yelling, and crying, and crying. His eyes are shut. He's having a nightmare.

“Steve,” the asset says again, louder. Steve sobs, “I’m sorry, I should’ve caught you, I should’ve gone after you, I’m sorry-”

“Steve wake up,” the asset growls, and Steve screams and his eyes open and he jolts, with its metal arm keeping him pressed to the bed.

Steve’s gaze is unfocused, wild, but he howls “Bucky? Bucky! Bucky I’m sorry,” and the asset feels something, like a knife, digging in its stomach. Steve lunges forward and crushes the asset close, body shuddering with each breath, and he keeps crying “Bucky, Bucky I’m sorry,” and the asset has never felt more of a stranger in Steve’s bed, and it’s like the knife’s twisting and Steve’s the one holding it.

But Steve’s in pain, whispering fervent prayers and frantic apologies, wrapped around the asset like he’s afraid Bucky would disappear the moment he lets go, and the asset knows that Bucky will, so it pulls Steve closer and tucks his head under its chin and pats his back, like Steve calling out for Bucky doesn’t hurt at all.

Steve cries himself to sleep an hour later, still slumped over the asset’s shoulders, arms around its torso. His hair is sweaty and messy, dried tear tracks still on his face, but whatever of a nightmare has died down and Steve’s snoring softly. 

The asset tries to move Steve back so he is lying down, but the slight movement seems to wake Steve, if not momentarily, just to whine low and say “don’t go, Buck, I missed you,” and the asset doesn’t hurt, because its an asset, and its not Bucky.

People hurt. Steve hurts. It doesn’t hurt, because it’s a pretend person and it’s just Steve’s nightmare and there’s nothing to feel hurt over. 

“I’m right here, Steve,” it says, anyways, and it rolls Steve over and holds him.

\--

The widow has a very strange and sad expression on her face. It might be pity, the asset thinks.

“What are you doing here,” the asset says, harsh and biting, “come to gloat that you were right?”

“I told you,” the widow says, tone sharp, “you hurt him again, and we’re coming for you.” But her expression is soft and her posture is slack.

“Oh what did I do,” the asset laughs a bit. It’s ashamed to hear it sound bitter and cold, and raw. The widow’s frown grows tighter, but her eyes are full of compassion which seems genuine, which is just fucking rich, especially coming from her.

“Listen,” the widow starts.

“Why don’t you leave me alone,” the asset snaps, just before the bell by the cafe door jangles and hawkeye walks in. This is important, apparently, enough for a double Avenger intervention.

The asset stays silent, staring at widow who stares back, and hawkeye makes small talk with the cashier and orders himself a cup of coffee and then slowly walks over to a table to sit adjacent to them, opening a book to pretend to read.

“You’re not going to say I told you so?” The asset says bitterly, with only a little bit of snark. It certainly doesn’t feel up for any dramatics or banter. It just wanted to moodily drink caramel macchiato and then go back to the safehouse it hasn’t been back to in over a week, and sleep for another.

“No, I’m not, because Steve’s important to all of us, and none of us want to see him hurt,” she says, echoing hawkeye from a while prior, who just flips a page from his novel. “And now, that extends to you.”

The asset glares. It’s not sure if that statement means if it’s now one of Steve’s friends or something that shouldn’t be hurt, and judging by the look on the widow’s face, she doesn’t know too, but looks pained saying it anyways. The way hawkeye flips his page suggests that the widow was coerced into saying that. 

The widow takes its caramel macchiato. It misses Steve, and his stupid caramel coffee obsession. It doesn’t even like caramel.

“I already made it clear to you, at the start, what you were getting into,” she says gently, which makes the asset want to hit her even more. She continues, “You look exactly like the man he loved for over twenty years. You think there won’t be repercussions? Maybe, I might have been a little… mistaken, about your intentions,” and any other time the asset might be slightly amused by the widow’s abashed tone, or the way hawkeye’s sip of coffee manages to sound smug.

“But this is how it’s going to be. Steve’s not going to forget Barnes, and he’s not going stop loving him, and you’re never going to replace him,” and she says it so bluntly but mechanically, like one of the medics reading a bullet list of wounds off to its handlers, and that’s what exactly it is. 

A list of wounds. Shot through the heart.

“That’s how it’s going to be,” the widow says, incredibly aware of it’s discomfort and knowing that this is a conversation that needs to happen. “Steve’s going to keep having nightmares and he’s going to keep mistaking you for Barnes when he’s frantic and in the middle of a panic attack, and you’re going to have to either leave or sit through it with him, and either way it’s going to hurt Steve, and it’s going to hurt you.” 

She gets up to walk out. The widow gives the worst pep talks ever. Was that supposed to encourage it to go back to Steve? Or was she reading the terms and conditions before a service and expecting it to accept anyways?

Hawkeye hums. He takes a toothpick, pretends to aim it, and flicks it. It falls an inch short of the asset’s coffee. Hawkeye pretends to try again, and pretends to fail again.

The third toothpick sails flawlessly through the air and hits dead centre of the cup. Hawkeye raises an eyebrow meaningfully.

The message is pretty clear. Stop missing your shot. Except the asset doesn’t exactly know what its supposed to aim at, this time.

\--

The widow and hawkeye, the asset finds out later, have only approached him under the most dire of consequences. Because Steve is a fucking wreck.

The asset finds out through live television, when a blond in blue spandex throws his shield away to knock out maybe one or two very oddly dressed people and steps straight into the line of fire of a goddamn alien tank and then gets thrown backwards into a building. 

The live broadcast in Tokyo ends a whole six hours later, which the asset watches through its phone screen anxiously while standing in the middle of the New York streets, glaring at passers-by jostling it with bags and looks of disdain. The miniature Steve on the screen picks up his shield, says some very official things to the camera, then passes out into iron man’s arms. 

And then three whole days pass as it sits in Steve’s living room, obsessively cleaning and frantic, hugging Lion and sitting on the couch, scouring various social media forms to get newest updates on one particular avenger. 

Most of the google alerts are memes of Steve swooning into iron man’s arms. The asset hates all of it, downvotes some reddit theories, and blocks some twitter and tumblr accounts.

On five pm of the third day, the apartment door opens and Steve Rogers stumbles in. He’s just out of a hospital, bandages and stitches everywhere and his torso still in a soft cast, just around the area that the alien tank’s laser beam hit.

The asset feels something lighten on its shoulders, seeing Steve standing there, worse for the wear but intact, all limbs present and functional. There’s an overwhelming sense of relief, and the short clip of Steve crashing through a building replays itself when Steve drops the shield and slumps against the door.

It’s almost like a parallel to their helicarrier fight, the shield falling. The asset doesn’t know what to think about it.

“A?” Says Steve, and he sounds exhausted, hurt, relieved. And then he starts to cry.

“Goddamn supersoldier hormones,” Steve says, “please stop leaving. Please stop running away from me. I can’t handle people leaving. Everyone’s left me. Peggy’s going to go. Not you, too.”

The asset is struck painfully. Steve sounds so hurt, unlike last time, there’s no anger in it. 

“I’m sorry,” it whispers into Steve’s hair.

“I’m sorry I mistook you for Bucky,” Steve murmurs, “but I can’t promise that won’t happen again. I’m sorry but Bucky was my best friend. I know you’re not him and I don’t want you to be, but please don’t make me get rid of him. I can’t let him go, I can’t.”

The asset feels something inside it break. It might be its heart.

“I’m sorry, I like you a lot, and I know you’re not Bucky, I really do. I don’t want you to replace him, but please don’t make me get rid of him. I love him, I miss him, my memory’s the only thing I have left of him. I’m sorry I can’t promise that I won’t stop mixing you up.”

“I know,” says the asset, “I know. I’m sorry I left. It was… it hurt, when you called me Bucky. I can’t be him, I really can’t, and I don’t want to be.”

“You’re not him, I know you’re not, A,” Steve says. He reaches over to cup the asset’s face, and brush away a stray lock of hair from its face. “I don’t want you to be. You’re you, you’re Asset, or A, or whatever you want to call yourself, and I like you.”

The asset sniffles. 

The widow called herself Natasha. That wasn’t her real name. But pretend people needed pretend names too. 

The asset thinks back, at the list it made.

It needed a name. How did the widow do it? How did she find something that belonged to her, and

Steve hugged it tighter. That was nice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't you love identity crises.  
> The plural of crisis is crises. Which I didn't find out about until I had to write this fic and typing crisises got me redlined. Fandom teaches us new things every day!


	12. Chapter 12

The asset doesn’t miss iron man walking into Walmart. Nobody misses iron man walk into the supermarket - there’s a crash as someone steps into a rack of newspapers, and a startled lady dropping her basket, and the noise of phones being whipped out. 

It drops a can of sardines into its basket, and reaches over to grab another.

“Do you happen to sell shovels?” Iron man says loudly, gesturing to the air, “a tarp? Bleach?” 

“I- of course we do,” an employee says, nervously. Customers are glancing between each other, wondering if he just stopped by to announce his intentions to hide a body. The asset drops a third can of sardines into its basket, and walks a little further up the aisle, stepping straight into iron man’s peripheral vision and deliberately reaching over to grab a can of tuna. It flicks it’s gaze up to catch iron man’s eyes, and flicks a stray strand of hair out of it’s eyes.

“On second thought,” iron man says casually, staring straight at it, “I don’t think I’ll even need it.”

A literal shovel talk, then. The asset nods a little, and it’s glad that no one had followed iron man’s line of sight. He waves to the general population and purchases a pack of gum from the counter, and then leaves as abruptly as he entered.

“Wow,” someone next to the asset says to their friend, “what do you think that was about?”

\--

The asset walks past Nick Fury on the street. 

It decides to tail him, because he is obviously not dead and Steve’s in Manhattan to settle some Avengery business, so there’s nothing for the asset to do for the next few hours.

Fury, who is too good to miss the world’s greatest assassin, whatever the widow thinks, past him on the street and then tail him, decides to lead the asset in a couple of alley circles until it seems like they both got tired of the aimless chase.

Fury brings the asset to an old bar. It has a vintage-esque style that seems like Steve would appreciate more, but it’s pretty nice and calm, and has a sweet atmosphere. The asset files it under places to bring Steve to.

“Why are you following me,” Fury says blunty. He glares at the asset from behind his sunglasses.

“I’m bored. Steve’s out of town,” the asset shrugs, “nothing personal.” It eyes the space over his heart where it could have sworn the bullets hit, but Fury had literally been in the game before it was born, and there were some things that were coined to years of experience that deserved respect.

Fury eyed it for a while longer, then shrugged and leaned back on his chair. “Fair enough,” he said, “what’s your poison?

“Nothing that would kill me,” the asset grins, all teeth. “What’s yours?”

“I’m already dead,” Fury shrugs. “Vodka?”

“I can’t get drunk,” the asset warns, before downing its first shot.

“Indulge an old man,” Fury deadpans.

\--

The asset is not drunk. It is, however, sufficiently loose and relaxed.

Fury was much more snarkier and sarcastic in person, and not a bad conversation partner, even if it feels like talking to a middle-aged dad with shared life experience, which includes espionage and murders.

And Fury swears a lot.

“Fuck,” says Fury, “fucking goddamn,” as his phone goes off. 

The asset takes a sip of it’s whiskey, watching Fury say something sweary into his phone then look annoyed. “Have to go, kid. Stay out of trouble. Don't kill my captain.”

“Don’t tell me what to do, old man,” the asset gripes.

Fury shoots it the stink-eye and walks off.

Steve’s friends are weird.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An extra super short chapter because I needed to add Tony's part for the next chapter but didn't want to *just* have Tones because that would be way too short. AHH treat this as a filler chapter aka my brain taking a break.


	13. Chapter 13

 “Hey, A,” says Steve, crawling out of bed at the whatever time it was and jostling the asset into unfortunate awakeness, “You want to go running with me today?”

The asset squints at Steve. “Running? Willingly? Right now? Today?”

Steve is already pulling on his running shorts, and a shirt that’s stretched too far to be considered a shirt anymore. It should be called a second skin. Not that the asset is complaining, or anything. Just to be clear.

“Yeah,” Steve says, in the awkward position of halfway-with-a-shirt-on, blinking owlishly, “I want you to meet Sam. Since you met Nat and Clint, and Tony already.”

“I did not... meet iron man, Tony,” the asset says, “he came into a walmart and started yelling.”

“Yeah, he told the entire tower on Saturday,” Steve admits, “was pretty proud of it. Kept saying he threatened the world’s third greatest assassin and lived.”

“Third?” The asset’s jaw drops. It’s astounded. It’s offended. It’s shocked. It’s aghast.

“Natasha’s obviously the best,” Steve says with a grin, clearly enjoying the dramatic play of emotions across the asset’s face, “and we decided to give Clint the title of second best, because he managed to bring Nat in.”

“Hawkeye is, at best, amateur,” the asset snarls, more mock offended than anything, “so what if he brought the widow in? That makes him best, I don’t know, spider catcher. I shot the widow three times, and she has never gotten me once. I’m obviously better than her.”

“Whatever you say,” Steve teases. He falls silent rooting for his socks in the drawer, then turns back and says, “can I ask you a question?”

“You can ask me another question, yes,” the asset teases.

“Why do you call Nat and Clint widow and hawkeye? You called Tony Tony just now.”

The asset thinks for a moment. It already knows it’s answer, but explaining it to Steve would be a little hard. “That’s because Tony’s actual name is Tony,” the asset says, ignoring Steve’s baffled look, “it may not be the birth name he got, but it’s the name he took and accepted as his own, and stays genuine to. The widow and hawkeye are spies. The names Natasha and Clint are… their current names. They’ve had as many names as you’ve celebrated, uh, non-frozen birthdays,” the asset says, “and each name was as real as Natasha and Clint, and they could be person at any time, but they’ll always be the black widow and hawkeye.”

Steve thinks for a bit. “What if… but, Natasha and Clint have… well, what if they’re like Tony? What if they’ve, uh, taken ownership of their names?”

The asset frowns at Steve. He looks incredibly innocent and confused, standing at the edge of the bed looking like a lost puppy. The actual lost puppy, Lion, looked just as lost on the foot of the bed.

“Natasha and Clint are covers, Steve,” the asset says gently, “no matter how real it seems. You’ll always be Steve Rogers, and Tony will always be Tony Stark. But the widow and hawkeye will leave their covers behind, and they won’t look back. I know that, and I won’t forget it, even if you might because Natasha and Clint seem so real to you. Like how she won’t forget who I am.”

The asset says the last part playfully, but Steve stays silent, looking down at his hands, then at Lion.  

Then Steve says, “is that why you call yourself Asset? Because you don’t want to play another cover you’ll have to leave behind? You don’t want an identity because you think it’d be fake?”

The asset doesn’t say anything, because Steve is right. 

Steve doesn’t seem like he needs a reply either, because he continues, jaw jutting out obstinately and eyes burning with determination like he’s willing the asset to see his stance and read his mind, “well, I think you’re wrong. Natasha and Clint are real. Maybe this is the hundredth role they’ve played, but that doesn’t change who they are, deep down. They can’t play a cover forever, and no one can. Maybe they need something to come back to, even if it’s not their real names. Like, like how you can go to a ton of places through the day but you’ll always go back to your house. And maybe it’s not your childhood house, and you’ll move every once in a while, but you’ll still have a house to come back to. A home.”

The asset thinks. Then it says, “that’s a terrible analogy, Steve.”

“Well you’ve distracted me for fifteen minutes,” Steve says, wagging a finger, “but don’t think this means you're getting out of running. Or meeting Sam.”

\--

“It’s great to finally meet you, uh, A,” Sam says.

Sam’s lying. He’s radiating nervousness and caution, with a bit of fear. He didn’t even try to shake the asset’s hand, which honestly, isn’t a big deal. It seemed like the widow’s warnings worked on at least one person.

Steve looks between them, scuffing his shoe. He looks awkward, like he’s bringing his boyfriend to meet the parent. Which is weird, because Sam is acting like the boyfriend, when he should be the parent.

Hah.

“Nice to meet you too, Sam,” the asset offers. 

Steve wriggles in the spot, and says, “run? Let’s run. We can start off with a light jog.”

“Light jog my ass,” Sam mutters under his breath. The asset smothers a grin. It thinks it’d like Sam.

The light jog turns quickly into a full out race between the super soldiers. The asset and Steve sprint side by side, having lost Sam a mile prior, with him screaming curses and waving his arms erratically. 

The asset refrains from tackling Steve, and Steve refrains from making any snarky asshole comments, up until they can see Sam in the distance, and Steve says, “oh, say on your left to him.”

“Seriously?” The asset says, and Steve grins. He’s panting lightly, which the asset considers a personal achievement, because apparently their sex is a more strenuous activity than doing a fifty mile per hour run.

Steve puts in an extra burst of speed and takes over, and the several seconds with Steve running in front of him is worth the extremely hilarious “Fuck you!” from Sam Wilson, as Steve dashes past him and says, “on our left,” like an asshole.

The asset says it too, grinning as it flies past. Sam screams in frustration.

\--

“Assholes, both of you,” Sam says. He’s collapsed under a tree, drinking from the bottle Steve hands him.

“Thanks for coming to Brooklyn, Sam,” Steve says genuinely, and the asset briefly wonders how he manages to do so many things genuinely. It certainly wasn’t a supersoldier serum effect.

“Watching Sam suffer was almost worth waking up early for,” the asset says, looking pointedly at Sam, still dying under the tree. Sam groans dramatically, and lobs the empty bottle at the asset, before his brain catches up to him and he looks absolutely horrified at his own actions. It would be incredibly funny if not for Steve’s extremely concerned look.

Scratch that. Steve’s dad face was what took the cake.

“Are you okay, Sam? You’re turning red. Do you need water?” Steve says, utterly oblivious to Sam’s internal turmoil at assaulting the best assassin in the world with a recyclable plastic bottle. “I’m going to go buy you another bottle,” Steve says.

Sam and the asset make eye contact for very long seconds, and then the asset slowly smirks.

“Oh fuck you,” Sam says on instinct, again, then looks appalled.

“I don’t know how Steve feels about sharing,” the asset tells him. Sam looks mildly impressed. 

“Natasha didn’t tell me you were a little shit,” Sam says.

“Did Natasha also tell you I shot her three times?” The asset says.

“Yeah, that’s like, her favorite story about you,” Sam says, then immediately regrets it.

“Is it,” the asset grins slowly. What would the widow like about that story? It is immediately intrigued. Sam looks even more horrified at his own words, like the widow was going to turn up and yell at him.

Even so, the asset does a customary visual sweep, in case.

The lady on the bench a few metres away is a SHIELD agent, and she had been on the same newspaper article ever since Steve and it ran past her maybe twenty minutes ago.

Steve comes back and throws a bottle at Sam. And then he empties his half empty bottle on the asset’s head. 

“What the fuck, Steve,” the asset splutters. Sam looks gleeful, and Steve looks like a little shit.

Of course that asshole did it to make Sam feel better. But he could’ve just thrown another bottle, or something.

“You should’ve seen your face,” Sam says excitedly, “oh god, we should’ve taken a picture. Blown it up and give it out as flyers. Have you seen this man? No he’s not lost, but you should see it.”

“That’s the cat flyer on tumblr,” the asset muses. Sam looks even more excited at that, as he says, “hey, I like your shoelaces.”

“Thanks,” the asset feels it’s smirk growing, “I stole them from the president.”

“What? You did what? A?” Steve says.

“I stole these,” the asset tells him, lifting a foot and waving the neon pink in Steve’s face. Steve looks appalled. “From the president?” He says.

“Falconrulez, with a z,” Sam says.

“Bangingcapmerica,” the asset tells him.

“What?” Steve says again.

 


	14. Chapter 14

“Glad you got along with Sam,” Steve says suddenly.

“Yeah?” the asset says. It plucks an orange from the pile from the supermarket, inspects it, then deems it adequate. It goes into the bag.

“Yeah,” Steve says happily, “he’s my best friend this century. I’m really happy that you two are, well, not trying to kill each other.”

“That’s a pretty low bar,” the asset remarks. It starts to search through apples, and briefly contemplates between two mildly bruised apples that look almost identical.

Hah.

“Uh huh,” Steve says, dropping a packet of blueberries into his own basket. “Sam’s one of my more normal friends. Nat and Clint are more suspicious of people and Tony likes to be nosy. The three of them dug up tons of stuff on Sam after I first met him. Sam waits to be introduced, and maybe does the customary google search but doesn’t click past the first page, like normal people.”

“I’m almost worried about your definition of normal,” the asset says, “and I’m surprised you know about not clicking past the first page of google.”

“It’s called a meme,” Steve says dutifully, like he’s reciting from memory, “something funny on the internet that appears with no explanation, but somehow everyone understands it.” He looks like he has no idea what he’s talking about. At least he pronounced meme right.

It picks up a bunch of bananas, only to see Steve make the world’s most disgusted face in history.

“What?” The asset asks.

“Ugh. The future ruined bananas.” Steve grinaces.

The asset narrows its eyes at the blond, but Steve looked so genuinely offended by the yellow fruit, so the asset gingerly puts it down. 

File under: things to research about Steve. Apparently the future ruined bananas.

“Bucky and I used to eat a lot of potatoes and cabbage,” Steve says abruptly, “we used to just boil them. We boiled everything back then.”

The asset thinks. Then it says, “I’ll cook for you.”

“Really,” Steve looks skeptical.

“Yeah,” the asset says, “I’m a great cook when I try. My knife skills are impeccable. I played a professional chef on my missions once.”

“I can’t cook at all,” Steve marvels, “for modern standards, apparently. I kept myself alive in the 1930s, but I tried to make something once at the tower and Tony sent my food down for lab tests because he was convinced I tried to kill him.”

“Of course you suck at cooking”, the asset says good naturedly, “I saw you try to cook chicken that one time. You boil everything.”

\--

“Bucky and I used to do this,” Steve says, legs tangled with the asset’s, sitting in front of the oven watching the potatoes bake, “I mean we didn’t have an oven, but we had a stove and -” then Steve fall s quiet and drops his head and says, “sorry. You don’t want to hear about that.”

“I know you’re not trying to compare me to James,” the asset says gently, tugging Steve closer, “he was your best friend. You have a lot of stories and memories about both of you and I like it when you share then with me.”

“Really?” Steve blinks, eyes wide.

“Yeah,” the asset says, “we are two different people. I know that, and so do you. Telling me about him kind of… emphasizes that? And I’m trying to think of him as a friend, not a competitor.”

“Did you think he was a competitor?” Steve asks. His head falls against the asset’s shoulder.

“Yeah,” it admits, “it was like competing with him over the right to wear this face. Who got to take the place in your life.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, quietly.

“Don’t be,” the asset kisses the top of his forehead, “you have nothing to be sorry about. You tried your best to keep us separate in your head, but that doesn’t change the fact that we look almost identical.”

Steve is silent as he thinks for a bit.

“I was thinking of getting a name?” The asset says.

Steve looks up, eyes twinkling. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” the asset says, “like A. But, with more letters. Like Natasha, or Clint. Something you can scream in bed.” It thinks. Steve was right, sort of. It didn’t have to be playing a cover to have a name. It could just… get a name. A lot of things had names. Their stuffed dog had a name, and it wasn’t even alive. 

And when it had to play a cover, just get a cover name, but go back to its… original name? After whatever that needed to be done was done. Granted, it was still a fake name, but… it might be nice. To have something.

It was a start.

Steve blushes lightly at that, and he bumps his head against the asset’s chin and hums. “I’m glad.”

“You could help me pick one,” the asset says.

“Really?” Steve lights up, “I mean, wow, I’d be honored. Thank you.”

“Mhm,” the asset says, “I’ll show you my list. But later, we have time. Go slice some carrots.”

\--

Falconrulez had reblogged several fan theories on “Stony”, in light of the three second video clip of Steve collapsing in Tony’s arms.

Ugh. And here, the asset almost trusted him.

“How do you pronounce this?” Steve asks, pointing to a name on the list.

“Vanya,” the asset says, and shoots Falconrulez a message. “Fuck off,” it says.

The reply comes in almost immediately. “Stony is CANON,” says Falconrulez.

“Ugh,” the asset says.

Steve looks up and into its phone. “Oh, you’re on cup,” he says mildly, then goes back to the list. “Yasha? Is this Yasha? Is this Russian? Sounds Russian.”

“What did you say?” The asset puts down its phone. “What did you call it?”

“Cup. You know, the social media website? Sam tried to explain it to me,” Steve wrinkles his nose adorably, “it was weird. Technology is so complicated. There are so many different websites that do the same thing now.”

“Cup? You mean a tumbler?”

“Sure,” Steve says, apparently unbothered about his immense lack of technological prowess and calling tumblr cup. The asset, on the other hand, gleefully shoots Falconrulez a message. “Steve just called tumblr cup. Cup. C U P.”

“OMFG,” says Falconrulez, “tell him he’s a grandpa.”

“You’re a grandpa,” the asset tells Steve.

“Mhm,” Steve says serenely, “I’m old enough to be yours. I’m a cradle snatcher. You’re a grave robber.”

The asset actually grimaces at that. “Never say that again.” Steve leans over to kiss it on the nose.

“Which name do you like best?” Steve asks.

“I don’t know,” the asset says, abandoning its phone and curling up on Steve, “they’re all my past aliases. I don’t have a particular preference for any of them.”

“Why don’t you ask Nat for help?” Steve asks.

“All her important aliases are variations of Natalia, which was her Red Room name,” the asset says, “easy for her to remember, different enough that they won’t be connected to each other. But she clearly has a thing for hanging on to the past, if you know what I mean.”

“Maybe she doesn’t want to forget,” Steve says, “you listed your past aliases when you were thinking of a new name for yourself. You could have done an internet search or found a baby book name or something, but you went for something that you already felt significantly connected to, even if you wanted the name to be something that signifies, uhm, the new you? The current you?”

The asset thinks. Dammit, Steve. Maybe he wasn’t the greatest tactical mind of the 20th century for nothing.

Then it says, “I didn’t want my search history to think I was an expectant mother,” and Steve giggles a little.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was thinking about Nikolai/Kolya, which (according to google) means winter/victory of the people?   
> Considered Yasha but (also according to google) it was the diminutive of Yakov, which is the Russian version of James/Jacob which I thought was too similar to Bucky. Hmm...


	15. Chapter 15

Steve’s on another HYDRA run, which means the asset is still absolutely bored.

Well, it wasn’t the greatest assassin for a decade for nothing, no matter what the widow thinks. It hacks Steve’s SHIELD encrypted laptop and catches the next flight to London, and then hails a cab to ambush a blond man wearing a beanie and a pair of fake tortiseshell glasses in front of a weird looking motel.

A normal person, bodybuilder or no, would be knocked over if a two hundred and sixty pound man with a running start jumped into their arms. Steve catches it, just like the asset knew he would.

“What?” Steve says, jaw dropping. A few passers-by turn their heads. Steve unceremoniously drops it, but it lands on its feet.

“Missed you baby,” the asset says, “got bored at home so decided to come with you on your business trip. Did you meet the big bosses yet? Your coworkers in this motel too?”

Steve scowls at him, which looks less pissy and more adorable, especially with those glasses. “No,” he says dutifully anyways, “the meeting’s tomorrow. My coworkers are in, I decided to take a walk. Tony insisted we have some department bonding, so we stopped a day early.” 

The asset grins. Steve narrows his eyes.

“A romantic stroll in the next continent,” the asset takes Steve’s arm in its, “you sure know how to pamper me.” Steve snorts at that, rolling his eyes. “You look like a hipster,” the asset tells him, “it’s cute.”

Steve blushes. “Nat says I should mix it up a little. Can’t go out in hoodies and baseball caps forever,” he says, and the asset has to give it to the widow - a good word of advice, especially if it means being greeted by Steve in glasses more often.

“You look like a millennial now,” the asset says, “let’s do millennial things. Let’s go to a gay bar.”

“Let’s go to a what?” 

“A gay bar,” the asset repeats, “we’ll blend right in. Because, we’re gay. Or not straight, because I’m bi. We can make out and get drunk.”

“I can’t get drunk,” Steve says, “and I’m bi, too.” He doesn’t protest to the making out, and the asset starts to weave them through a complicated pattern of streets and alleys to throw off any tails, because there’s no doubt the widow is glaring at them through the third storey window of that motel, and then drags Steve into a kitschy little pub.

“I suppose you are kind of bi,” the asset thinks. If it didn’t exactly identify as a man, per say, but was biologically one, and if Steve was attracted to him, that was considered gay, right? 

“Kind of bi?” Steve questions. He pushes the glasses further up his nose, and the asset weaves them through the thong of people on the dance floor and brings Steve to a set of chairs tucked in the corner by the counter. A lot of men stop to stare at them, and the asset doesn’t blame them. Steve is an absolute specimen, and it’s not too bad itself.

“I’m not a, I, well,” the asset thinks of words to say and wonders if Steve would understand it, then remembers that Steve did tons of readings after being cornered by a gaggle of reporters during Pride a few years back and was thus sufficiently educated in the subject. “I’m non-binary,” the asset says.

“Oh,” Steve says. The asset sees him think, so it tugs him gently to the bar and orders two shots of vodka. 

“I know what non-binary is,” Steve says, “I’ve been reading. I, uh, support you? Very much. You're valid and I appreciate your existence.” He looks worried, nose wrinkling. The asset smiles softly at that. Steve was honestly so precious.

“Thank you Steve, you're valid too,” the asset says. It downs the shot, which gives a low burn down its throat. Steve follows suit, and then he says, “so I’ll use they and them pronouns for you now? When talking to the team?”

The asset frowns slightly, and Steve reaches over to grasp it’s shoulder reassuringly, the same anxious look on his face. “A?” He asks, lips curling in a cute pout that the asset immediately decides to lean forward and kiss. But Steve pushes him away gently and chides, “don’t deflect. What’s wrong?”

The asset shrugs a little helplessly. Steve Rogers’ large eyes were an effective interrogation tactic, and that’s saying something, given that it has been part of HYDRA. Fucking HYDRA.

Fucking. HYDRA. This whole I’m-a-person-but-not-really thing is their fault.

“A,” Steve says softly, “tell me.”

Dammit. All those years honing it’s anti-interrogation skills, only to fall victim to Steve fucking Rogers. 

The Red Room would be so disappointed. Not that it really cared what they thought, anyhow. And the whole pretend-person thing was their fault, too. 

“I mean, I call myself it. Sometimes. I mean, I guess they and them are fine? It’s just my internal voice. My subconscious. Nothing to worry about.”

Steve wordlessly raises his hand for the bartender like the dramatic little shit he is, gets another shot of vodka, downs it, then lunges forward to crush the asset to his chest. It barely gets the time to choke out a laugh at the dramatics before it’s pressed to Steve, and then he has his nose buried in the asset’s hair and starts to shake.

“Are you crying right now?” The asset says, incredulously, and Steve pulls away and glares. He was, indeed, crying. A cursory glance tells the asset that no one was paying them any mind, because the earlier kiss informed the floor that neither of them were available.

“You’re not an it, A,” Steve says angrily. He rubs at his eyes and nose with the back of his hand. “You’re a person. You’re not an it. I’m not calling you an it. You’re not calling yourself an it. This is non-negotiable.”

“I mean,” the asset shrugs a bit helplessly, Steve’s arms weighing its shoulders down, “it’s not really a big deal. It’s just how my mind narrates things.”

“It is a big deal,” Steve insists, “it’s very much a big deal. I don’t - ok, you know what? Fire your mind narrator. Get a new one. You’re using they and them now. Don’t make me call corporate.” 

“Is this an order, Captain?” The asset says, but its heart is pounding. 

“Yes it is,” Steve says, hard. His voice is firm and dominating and the effect is partially ruined when Steve sniffles, but it goes straight to the asset’s dick anyways.

Steve’s phone rings.

Steve picks it up, and reaches his other hand to grasp the asset’s flesh hand, and tugs it closer. The bar stool moves along with it. 

“Hello?” Steve says, and then there’s a pause, before he says, “yeah, I’m with them right now,” and he shoots the asset a meaningful look. “Yeah, them,” he says, “yeah Sam, I’ll be back tonight, we still have to go over the plans - no!” His voice drops to a whisper, and a blush creeps up the back of his neck, and Steve says, “we are not banging in an alley! Shut up!”

The asset thinks for a moment.

“Wanna bang in an alley?” It- no they, they say.

Steve splutters, and there’s a laugh across the line before he hangs up.

\--

“Didn’t believe you have an exhibitionist kink, Rogers,” the asset hears Tony say.

Steve winces, and walks a little uneasily, sparking a laugh from iron man, who waggles his eyebrows suggestively. 

“He - They’re the one with the exhibitionist kink,” Steve mutters, low enough that the asset still hears it from where its - they’re, hiding, a street over by the dumpster.

“Come on, Romeo,” Tony says. He sounds fond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wasn't sure how to tackle the it/they/them thing and not sure it could be brought up in everyday casual conversation, hopefully this isn't weird!


	16. Chapter 16

The asset doesn’t go back to Steve’s. It - They shadow the Avengers to a very conspicuous, or whatever the opposite of inconspicuous is, warehouse. The asset has been to this warehouse before, and even helped design some of its traps. They weren’t very good traps, because it didn’t feel particularly strong protective feelings about HYDRA and thus decided to sloppily set them, and it had disabled most of them in the process of escaping said warehouse. Or maybe it was just that good.

The asset watches hawkeye shriek as a rat scuttles over his foot. Yep, it was just that good.

They. They, were just that good. God, this pronoun thing was hard.

Steve says something and does stupid gestures with his hands, then waves in the general direction of where the asset had perched on. The Avengers look up and hawkeye and Sam wave at it - them, which was the worst, Steve, who gives away your sniper’s position like that?

Steve gives the asset a shit-eating grin. It’s not as cute as he thinks it is.

The asset makes itself - themself, comfortable, and the avengers decide to just bust in with zero finesse and style, which was just ridiculous. It - They take out the stragglers that emerge from the building to run, what happened to the HYDRA loyalty they boasted? Damn, HYDRA had no loyalty, if their best asset had defected and was currently helping take them down. 

By then, a sizable crowd had gathered, which was stupid. The people of today had no self preservation skills whatsoever.

The takedown of the base was embarrassingly short, because there was a skeleton crew guarding nothing of importance, even if it was a big enough base to warrant all the avengers save Thor who was probably in space, and Hulk who the asset saw was sitting at their dingy motel and probably watching them on live television, judging by the news crew that had pulled up and made camp.

“We saved the city from HYDRA, again,” says Tony Stark into the camera, winking.

“Any comment on the recent rumors that you and Captain America are more than friends?” Says the reporter, who the asset would shoot in the head if it didn’t mean that Steve would probably get mad.

“Oh? What relationship is that?” Asks Tony. Behind him, Steve was sighing, and the other avengers were snickering. Even the widow looked immensely amused. 

“Well, in your last mission, Captain America fainted into your arms after a fight on live TV, which was incredibly... interesting, especially after he publicly came out as bisexual,” the reporter began, and Tony snorts so hard that she looks startled.

“Well, for starters, I am into blondes,” Tony waggles his eyebrows, and the asset contemplates shooting him instead. “But I asked the good Captain out and he turned me down, sadly, I have the feeling he’s more into spyssassins.”

“Oh my,” says the reporter, and hawkeye exaggeratedly blows a kiss to Steve, who turns red. The widow flips her hair and squeezes Steve’s bicep, apparently feeling in a good enough mood to play along, or she just really wants to give the asset shit. 

Probably both.

\--

Falconrulez reblogs fanart of Steve and the spysassins. The asset hates it.

“Fuck you,” the asset types, and reblogs it with a couple of angry face emoticons.

“Hey bangingcapmurica,” Capspysassinot3 asks, “r u rp-ing clint or natasha?”

“Neither, asshole,” the asset angrily types back, “I’m the winter fucking soldier.”

“Oh that helicarrier dude with the metal arm,” Capspysassinot3 types, “yeah he’s an assassin too i forgot. Y him tho?”

“Why not?” The asset types back.

“Tru,” says Capspysassinot3, “their fight was kinda hot.”

“Course,” types the asset.

“Cool,” says Capspysassinot3, “Steve/nat/clint is still my ot3.”

Ugh.

\--

“Steve,” says the asset.

“Is that me?” Steve says, pointing at the sketchbook. The asset had flipped a new page on one of Steve’s books, which was now boasting a very proud stickman with the captain america shield, and another with a rifle and a thicker arm with the word “metal” and an arrow pointing towards it. They were holding hands, or rather they looked like they were holding hands. There was a cartoon heart floating in the middle.

“Yeah, and me. I’m going to post it on tumblr.”

“Why?” Steve looks incredulous. He sits across the asset and takes the book from it - them. 

“There’s fanart and fanfic about you and hawkeye and the widow as an ot3 now,” the asset says, still a little miffed, “after Stark’s spysassin comment, I have to one-up those ignorant shits. Captain america and the winter soldier is the ultimate ship.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Steve admits, “you want to tell the internet that we’re dating?”

“No, I want to make theories on the internet that we’re dating,” the asset says, “it’s different. We’re not officially going out and saying that we’re dating. That would cause so many problems. I’m still a wanted criminal, hiding in plain sight.”

“Oh,” Steve says, sounding like he forgot the asset was a goddamn fucking wanted assassin.

“Besides, I’m anonymous on the internet. It’s just fun.”

Steve looks thoughtful. He slides up to the asset and squeezes it - them, then flips the sketchbook pages and lands on a gorgeous sketch of the asset and Steve, cuddled on the couch. It - their face was covered up by a curtain of hair, but the metal arm was clearly visible.

“The internet’s going to think I’m a great artist,” the asset says. It - they consider the picture, one of Steve’s later works.

“You don’t mind me posting this?” The asset asks.

“You said it’s anonymous,” Steve shrugs, “better this than the stickmen.”

“Are you calling me a bad artist, Rogers?” The asset says.

“You can put up your drawing on the wall,” Steve teases.

\--

The messages flood in quickly.

“Omg,” comments one tumblr user Greenpotatoeggs.

“WTF IS THIS,” comments Wowwwwwwwwes.

“DID STEVE DRAW THIS,” says Falconrulez, who starts spamming the asset’s inbox.

“;)” sends the asset.

“OMG Steve NEVER draws me fanart,” says Falconrulez.

“It’s not fanart. It’s real life,” the asset smugly informs him.

“I hate you,” says Falconrulez.

“;)” says the asset.

“Are you on that weird website again?” Steve calls, from somewhere in his apartment.

“It’s tumblr, Steve, and yes, I am,” the asset shouts back. It - they reply Sam’s swears with the sunglasses emoticon.

“It’d rot your brain!” Steve says.

“Suck my dick, old man!” The asset calls.

There’s a blissful few seconds of silence, where Falconrulez types “I’ll never run with you two again,” and the asset replies “I don’t like running. You two willingly do exercise. Steve is weird,” to which Sam says “you’re a literal SUPERSOLDIER,” and then Steve comes barrelling out from the hall and pounces on the asset and sends them flying.

“We just replaced this goddamn coffee table,” the asset complains, and then Steve’s mouth is on it’s mouth and then it - they don’t do much complaining after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have more tumblr millennial crack!


	17. Chapter 17

The widow has a strange look on her face.

The asset hates her strange looks. They never mean good things.

“Hey, A,” she drawls, like it’s something funny.

The asset narrows it’s - their eyes. 

“A,” the widow says, again, giggling to herself, “A. A. Aaaaaaaa.” Which sounded like she was saying eyyyyyy, which would be funny if it weren’t so slightly disturbing.

“What do you want now,” the asset snaps, a little irritable. All it - they wanted was to pick up ice cream and pasta and condoms from walmart, and now he had melting ice cream in it’s - their shopping cart and Steve probably sleeping off his emotions after watching Bridge to Terabithia.

The widow narrows her eyes for a fraction of a second, such that it - they probably wouldn’t be able to catch it if it - the hadn’t known her since she was ten.

Whatever she knew, it - they knew. Did she think she could get the upper hand on it - them with her cryptic eyebrow raises and little smiles? Nope, she couldn’t because it - they were the world’s best assassin.

And then she extends a hand to shake and says, “I don’t think we’ve been introduced. My name is Natasha Romanoff.”

The asset stares at her. 

She smiles again. It’s a little uncertain, awkward.

Oh my god. Was she actually trying to be nice this time?

“I don’t,” says the asset a little helplessly, waving an arm around in the air. 

“Uh huh,”says the widow, “it’s okay, you’ll find one. I heard you made a list.”

The asset scowls. “Steve’s ratting me out.”

“I just have really amazing interrogation techniques,” the widow says and smiles a little oddly, like she’s trying to be sincere but is not quite feeling it. She’s fidgety, for Red Room standards. Normal people watching them would imagine they were close friends catching up.

“Okay, who sent you here? Hawkeye? Steve?” The asset says flatly.

The widow looks annoyed at that. “Oh come on,” she says, “can’t I have a conversation with you of my own accord?”

It - they continue staring at her.

She looks a little more miffed now. “It was hard,” she says.

The asset raises an eyebrow.

“Leaving,” she clarifies, putting her hands in her pockets, and oh. Oh. This wasn’t a Steve-and-asset situation. Apparently the widow wanted to have a heart to heart in the supermarket aisle.

Well what better place could they converse in anyways?

“I pretended, for a really long while,” she shrugs, looking just slightly uncomfortable, and the asset suddenly remembers that she is incredibly young. Both of them are, sentenced to a life that they could never fully live with a single choice that was not theirs. But they were children, once.

Maybe they would have even become friends, if they met on the playground instead of in the ring. They’ll play on the swings and then go home and have soup for supper instead of breaking bones and screaming threats. 

“Yeah?” The asset says.

“You are lucky, to have found Steve,” she says, “there’s something about him. He lived through a war but it’s like he’s still pure. He is, uh. He’s… nice. It was,” she hesitates, “it took me a long time. To find. Natasha.”

The asset stays quiet. If there was any doubt that the widow had some sort of crush on Steve, romantic or platonic or otherwise, it was completely erased. The widow is visibly uncomfortable, which just goes to show exactly how vulnerable and antsy this conversation must make her feel. But it - they sort of appreciate it, in its - their own way.

“Your list, it’s good. It’d help,” she says.

“Why Natasha?” It - they ask.

She gives a bit of a smile, barely a quirk of her lips. “It’s American,” the widow says in explanation, “I miss Russia. But I’m not going back, I can’t get back the Russia I miss. America is… new. It’s hope. Might find a bit of that Russia I want to find here, too.” 

The asset feels itself - themselves smiling involuntarily. “This place might be home,” it - they summarize.

The widow - Natasha looks over and grins. It’s fleeting, and young, and it reminds the asset slightly of the little girl in red hair at the edge of the courtyard with a knife in her hands and fear in her eyes.

“You might want to go refreeze the ice cream,” the widow - Natasha says, after a long silence.

“I’ll refreeze you,” the asset says instinctively, then winces. Too much time with Steve has reduced its - their comeback quality.

“I hope you don’t say that to Steve,” she almost snorts, “he’s a real life cryogenics survivor. It might make him cry again.”

\--

“I think I want a Russian name,” says the asset, curled up on the couch with Steve’s arm around him.

“Hm?” Steve prompts.

“An american name is… too James Barnes.”

“I know you’re not him,” Steve’s brows furrow, and he looks ready to launch into a tirade about identity. “I know,” the asset says hurriedly, “but it’s not just that. They made me play american a lot, HYDRA I mean, and more often than not I was stationed in some parts of America. I grew up in Russia in the Red Room but this country was where most of HYDRA had me.”   
“Oh,” Steve says quietly.

“Russia was, the Red Room sucked,” the asset tells him, “but. I had a home.”

Steve is silent, but he curls a hand around it’s - their wrist.

“I had a mom, a dad,” the asset says, pauses, “a little brother.” It - they take a deep breath. “I think, I don’t know. The Red Room took orphans. Like the widow, um, Natasha. I don’t know why I was different.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve says.

“I don’t,” the asset says, “it’s okay. It’s been so long. I don’t remember - I don’t know how to find them, anyways. It’s gone. But… I guess you’re right. Maybe the widow doesn’t want to forget, and maybe neither do I.”

Steve stays silent, then slowly kisses the asset on it’s - their temple. Then he says, “you want to go see Peggy? With me?”

The asset blinks. “Steve?”

“She’s… she’s family. I want you to meet her, as A, or the asset, or whatever name you chose. She’s, um, she might get confused. Mistake you for Bucky. But, uh.”

“I’ll go with you,” the asset says, “thank you.”

Steve tightens his arms around it - them, and drops his head on it - their shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmmm.... Ok wonderful people I need your help... so most of my knowledge (??) about non binary people are from social media PSAs and the occasional google search/forum but does anyone have any recommendations for stuff I can read up on? Idk AHHH, maybe I shouldn't have tried tackling something I didn't know too much about, rereading/going through the comments makes me find out how much I actually don't know!!!!!


	18. Chapter 18

Visiting Peggy was. An experience.

“Are those flowers?” Steve says, amused.

The asset doesn’t blush. “From the best spysassin of the century to another,” the asset sniffs self-righteously, “I respect my predecessor.”

“Of course,” Steve teases, “daisies. She’ll love them.”

The asset looks down at its - their coat, which is blue, and the bouquet. “Is this too Barnes? Should I lose the coat? Barnes wore this blue, right?”

Steve glances at it - them. “No, it’s fine,” he says, sounding a little odd, “the hair makes you look, uh, modern. She won’t think you’re Barnes.”

The asset watches him. Then it - they say, “it’s not the hair. Why won’t she think I’m Barnes?”

Steve shrugs a little, visibly uncomfortable, “Peggy and, uh, Bucky didn’t really like her. They didn’t get along, despite Bucky being a ladies man and Peggy being able to charm off the socks of any guy she met. They pretended to be friends in front of me but I, uh, could tell they didn’t like each other. She'll, uh, know you're different.”

“Ever wonder why?” The asset says mildly. It - they might have a hunch.

“I don’t know,” Steve shrugged, “I tried to ask, but neither of them would say.”

God. Steve was. 

Well, it was lucky he was cute.

\--

“Hey Peg,” Steve said softly, “I brought someone for you to meet.”

Peggy was old and greying, but her eyes were sharp, as she looked past Steve and straight at the asset with assessing eyes. She narrowed them suspiciously.

“This is A,” said Steve, “my b-” he cuts himself off, looks nervously between Peggy and the it - them, and the asset briefly wonders if Peggy was homophobic and Steve had just never considered it up till now, because she was from the nineteen hundreds after all. It - they've heard tons of stories about Peggy, but you never really knew.

“-partner?” Steve says.

The asset blinks. Peggy raises an eyebrow.

“Like, not my work partner,” Steve hurriedly corrects, “uhm, A’s not my SHIELD related partner. Partner as in, significant other partner, as in boyfriend partner, except A’s non-binary as in not a boy so I can’t call them my boyfriend, but that kind of partner, as in romantic partner and-”

“You’re rambling, dear,” Peggy says warmly, and Steve’s mouth clicks shut, and turns red.

“A,” Peggy says, “it’s nice to meet the person who has turned Steve into a gooey mess everytime he comes here. Come closer, an old lady never gets much gossip lying around and I need you to fill me in on whatever Steve’s been doing that he won’t tell me about.”

“Peggy,” Steve hisses, embarrassment creeping up his neck. The asset smirks, and it - they say, “I’m afraid whatever Steve’s been doing isn’t quite suitable for a lady’s ears,” and Steve whines a little. Peggy gives the asset a saucy grin and a wink. It - they hand Peggy the bouquet.

“Daisies! Beautiful!”

“I’ll put these in water,” the asset tells her. It - they reach out for a vase.

“Such a gentleman,” Peggy says. Steve hides his face in his hands, and it’s adorable.

“You look familiar, dear,” she squints at the asset the moment it - they turn around. Steve leans over to say, “Bucky,” and Peggy’s face clears, but then drops. “Oh that poor boy!” She says, holding her hand to her heart, “Oh, you're not related to him, are you? Bucky had several siblings, if I recall.”

"No, just coincidences," the asset says, "I'm Russian."

“Pegs,” Steve looks pained.

Peggy blinks for a while longer, then shakes her head, and then beams at it - them brillantly. “Well, I’m glad you brought the partner around, finally. So what if he - uh, they look like Bucky? Any person who makes this guy,” she jabs a finger in Steve’s direction, “turn from Captain America into a marshmallow is great in my book.”

“Thank you,” the asset says, smiling, “you’re not too bad yourself, ma’am.”

“Such a charmer,” Peggy sighs dramatically, “please, call me Peggy.”

“You were the best spy in the 20th century,” The asset says, “it’s an honor.”

“Why is that?” Peggy asks.

“I’m the best spy in the 21st century,” the asset tells her, grinning, “winter soldier, ma’am - uh, Peggy.”

“Oh. Oh! Sharon mentioned you,” Peggy thinks for a while, “did you try to shoot her?”

“Agent 13? Yeah, couple of times,” the asset winces.

“Well Sharon is really good at her job, so I suppose you are too, if you shoot her,” Peggy muses, apparently unbothered. What the fuck?

Steve is grinning, completely at ease with the exchange, like he knew Peggy would be totally cool with the asset trying to kill her niece a few times. 

And then Peggy settles back in her bed and closes her eyes, already exhausted. “It’s been nice seeing you, Pegs,” Steve says sincerely, “we’ll come over again next time.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Peggy says sleepily.

\--

“Did you love both of them?” The asset asks abruptly, and Steve spills a bit of his drink.

“What?” Steve says. 

“Carter. Barnes,” the asset says. They’re walking, so the asset bumps his shoulder. Steve gulps and says, “yeah, I did.”

The asset waits a little.

Steve says, “I’ve loved Bucky my, uh, entire life. I didn’t stop loving him, but then I met Peggy, and, uh, I did. I loved her too. I would’ve married her, if I survived the war.”

“What about Barnes, then?” It - they ask.

“I don’t know. He’ll marry his own girl. We’ll be neighbours, and our children will play with each other, and we’ll grow old together. Or maybe not, because he and Peggy were never too good friends.”

“I’m sorry,” the asset says, “you couldn’t have that.”

“It’s, I don’t, I don’t know,” Steve shrugs, “don’t be sorry. This life. The 21st century’s not that bad.” He sneaks a little smile over at it - them, and their hands bump.

The asset chases Steve’s fingers and grasps his hand.

“I think I would’ve liked to be a pianist,” the asset tells him, “I can play. But one of the memories I had of being a kid, was wanting to do so professionally. I saw a ballet once, but all I remembered was how good their pianist played.”

“I would’ve been a painter,” Steve says, “you know I did my own propaganda posters?”

“Yeah?” The asset says, “they missed out that detail in the history books.”

“It wasn’t common knowledge,” Steve shrugs, “I got bored in between medical tests and random exercises they made me do, and I overheard some officers talking about war bonds and fundraising, so I started sketching. I mean, most of it got redone and recolored professionally, but I remember the ones I did.”

“If we ever get bored of saving the world-”

“-or killing people,” the asset corrects.

“Or killing people,” Steve adds, amused, “we can make art and music.”

“A couple of guys being dudes,” the asset says, to Steve’s confused look, “art dudes.”

“Oh okay,” Steve squints.

“Man, do I have to tell you about vine,” says the asset.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure about this chapter AHHH. I love Peggy! I love her!


	19. Chapter 19

“What’s the point of all these?” Steve asks, “why do people do these?”

“Entertainment, Steve,” says the asset, “you spent months of your life dancing across stages and punching out hitlers. You’ll know about entertainment.

“Just a couple of dudes being gay,” says the screen of Steve’s laptop. “Show me your dick, Steve.”

“Oh my god his name is Steve,” says the asset excitedly, “we can recreate this vine.”

“Why?” Steve looks appalled, when the asset grabs it’s - their phone and tugs Steve up.

“We’ll send it to Sam, it’d be hilarious,” says the asset.

\--

“Post it,” types Sam, “best vine recreation. Post It.”

“The point of an anonymous tumblr is to be ANONYMOUS,” the asset types back.

“U suck,” says Sam, “the world deserves to see this. I sent it to Tony btw. He says “HAHHAHAHHAHA TELL CAP I’M GOING TO SET IT AS HIS RINGTONE”. Can’t tell if he’s joking.”

The asset relays the information to Steve.

“Tony did what?” Steve says, scandalized. He pulls out his phone to check.

“Call him,” the asset types to Sam.

Almost immediately, Steve’s phone rings. “A couple of dudes being guys,” Steve’s tinny voice carries from the speaker.

“Oh my god,” says Steve, blushing.

“Oh my god,” says the asset, as it - they type it.

“Oh my god,” comes the reply from Sam. 

“HAHAAHAHAHHAHA, says Tony,” says Sam.

“This is literally the best,” types Sam.

\--

Steve jumps on the bed.

“A. Running, Let’s go.”

“I’m not running willingly, weirdo,” the asset says, throwing a pillow in Steve’s general direction. Steve catches the pillow and throws it back, then says, “come on. Sam misses you.”

“No he doesn’t,” the asset snorts.

“I’m glad you guys are friends,” Steve says proudly, “he told me that you two text a lot over that weird website, but he misses your face. I don’t understand why you don’t do it like normal people.”

“Sam never would have said that, and that is how normal people do it, old man,” the asset snorts inelegantly, “we don’t send telegrams anymore. Besides, Sam said he wouldn’t run with us until you drew him fanart.”

Steve smiles beignally.

“You didn’t,” the asset says.

Steve looks away, still smiling, and pulls on socks.

“Steve, you didn’t,” the asset says again.

It’s - their phone dings. The asset dives over the bed to grab it from the nightstand, and then it - they see it. A tumblr post from Falconrulez, sporting an adorable sketch where captain america passes falcon on a run, both decked out in their superhero uniforms, and a speech bubble with an “on your left” from the captain. There are already a hundred notes since the picture was posted a minute ago.

“Oh my god,” says the asset, “how dare. I thought I had fanart privileges. Steve.”

“Aww come on,” says Steve, “I’ll draw you another picture. Come running?”

The asset pretends to think for a while. Then it - they say, “make it nsfw and i’ll consider exercising.”

“I don’t know what that means,” says Steve, “but sure?”

“You promised,” the asset tells him, “no takebacks. You’re drawing porn of us now.”

“Wait what? A? Porn? What does nsfw mean?” Steve looks startled, and then turns red. The asset hops out of bed and gives Steve a mischievous grin, and winks. 

“Running, Rogers,” says the asset.

“What does nsfw mean?” Steve calls after it - them.

They don’t reply, but they do laugh loudly at Steve. 

\--

“I’m better than you,” the asset tells Sam. It - they flop down on the grass, next to where Steve has sprawled out. It - they grab Steve’s bottle and takes a long drink.

“Try… running… without the serum… you dick,” Sam pants, “you won’t… be able to… keep up with me.”

“I’d kick your ass even as a normal human,” the asset snorts.

“You would… die…” Sam says. He reaches over to yank the bottle from the asset’s hand and pours it over his head.

“This bitch empty,” the asset says abruptly.

“YEET,” Sam screams. He flings the bottle over Steve’s head, and it lands a few feet short of the trash can.

“You guys are so weird,” Steve mutters, but he sounds amused. He gets up to throw the bottle away.

“We’re millennials,” Sam calls out, “and physically, you are too. Join the weirdness, man. Let’s make avengers vines.”

“No thanks,” Steve says, “I’m old.”

“Oh my god,” Sam says abruptly, “we should call Clint. He would love making avenger vines. Whaddya say, A? Avengers vines?”

“As long we get Steve in one,” the asset tells him. Sam punches the air and pulls out his phone and starts typing.

Steve grins at the asset. The asset rolls it’s - their eyes, and Steve laughs a little.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More filler millennial weirdness, and also I want Sam and A to hang out more. Give us that brotp.  
> Yeet is a 2014 vine!!! CATWS happened in 2014!!!


	20. Chapter 20

“The Red Room had a lot of girls,” the asset says one day, lying on the bed with Steve pressed at its - their side, staring up at the ceiling with one eye and with Lion over another, “I was one of the only, uh, boys. Me and two other kids. One of the boys, an older one, would tell us that the Red Room took us because of something called Project Zima.”

“None of us knew what that meant,” the asset shrugs, “he overheard it from one of our instructors. They were saying it’s a shame, their programme was better suited for girls, but one of the higher-ups wanted to recreate project Zima.” It - they winced as they said it. “We never heard anything about it after that.”

“Do you think Nat would know about it?” Steve asks.

“Doubt it,” the asset shrugs, “Zima means. Winter. In Russian.”

“Oh,” says Steve.

“I survived,” says the asset.

Steve cuddles deeper into the asset’s side, hugging the metal arm to his chest.

“The, uh, the supersoldier serum. We trained and fought and killed, and a decade later they strapped us down and put their version of the serum through our bloods, and at the end I walked out of my room and the other two got wheeled out in a gurney with a sheet over their heads.” The asset breathes slowly, and Steve rubs circles on its - their collarbone.

“The older one. He could carry a tune, sing really well. He sang us lullabies all the time, and songs we heard on the radio when they let us leave. The younger one said he could play the violin. We joked about if we got out, we’d start a band. A little orchestra. Me on the piano.”

Steve pulls it - them closer, and puts feathery kisses along their neck.

“We were friends. As much as friends could be, anyways. I think we got an easier time than the widows. The girls - there were many, many of them. So many, all of them were disposable. Every year their numbers dropped by half - randomly pitted against each other in the ring, the winner walked off and the loser had a broken neck.”

Steve hums low, and started stroking the asset’s hair.

“We fought them, sometimes individually, sometimes together. I think it was like a punishment for them. Last an hour against us or die trying. They weren’t allowed to kill us, but we could kill them if we wanted to. I think the widow - ah, Natasha, almost broke one of their necks. She was good.”

The asset blinks a little. Its - their eyes are dry. 

“I was Vanya on a recon mission. Get in, plant a bug, steal a file, get out. It was an early one, should’ve been a test, to see how my serum fared. I got put through an unfairly ridiculous path, to, ah, I had to do a ton of stupid shit, hold my breath for really long, run at oddly specific and humanly unattainable speeds. It was weird, and not one of the Red Room’s best attempt at concealing a test. But pretty sure they were lowkey terrified of me by then, because I was as good as their best widow without the serum, and with I was better.”

“I think,” the asset hesitates, “she may have the serum. At least a little bit. When I met her on the field she was better than, she was better than a regular human. I think the Red Room wanted her to be able to incapacitate me, if it came down to it.”

Then it - they snorted softly, amused, “but she defected first, so really, they made a poor decision.”

Steve laughs softly, “she told me about the time the Red Room made you two work together, and you couldn’t stand each other and fought so much your handlers got sick of it and never put you two together again.”

“We were teens back then,” the asset tells him, chuckling, “I’m surprised she remembered. Well, I guess it’d be hard to forget. It was a training simulation because the Red Room wanted to see how their best widow and winter soldier could fare together, and we almost killed each other instead of the target. It wasn’t my fault she made such flawed strategic decisions.”

“She told me you wanted to launch her fifteen feet into the air,” Steve says.

“I could do it,” the asset argues, “she was really small and light back then. She was the one who was convinced she could get through the laser grid by being flexible. That thing only works in movies.”

“She is really flexible,” Steve acknowledges, “and I did throw her several floors up to get one of those alien hoverbike things. During the chitauri invasion.”

“I saw so many memes about it,” the asset nods gravely, “so unfair. What does she say about the time I shot her?”

“Three times,” Steve says, “she loves it. She says it’s her favorite memory about you.”

“I can only guess why,” the asset muses

“Tell me,” Steve lightly nudges it - them, “you sounds like you do know.”

“One of my missions, after her defection, was to bring her in, dead or alive,” the asset thinks, “I don’t know why, maybe I felt weird, but I let her go.”

“After shooting her,” Steve says.

“I could’ve gone after her, to make sure she was really dead,” the asset says, “But she tried to get out, and maybe I was curious about what she would do,” the asset shrugs, “The Red Room was convinced she would have died, because of the blood at the scene. Some of which might not be hers, but they didn’t bother checking.”

Steve starts grinning, “you saved her life.”

“By shooting her in the stomach,” the asset agrees, “three times.”

“She appreciates it,” Steve jokes. “I don’t have stories like that, only variations of I-saw-some-form-of-injustice-on-the-streets, called-them-out, and-then-get-beat-up-in-an-alley-until-Bucky-finds-me.”

“That’s your life now,” the asset snorts, “but without the, uh, Bucky part.”

“And I can hold my own now,” Steve says, “I used to be so small and scrappy, thinking I could save the world one good deed at a time.”

“What changed?” The asset asks. It - they turn over, shifting Lion’s position, but they take the dog and squishes it between both them and Steve.

“War,” Steve shrugs, sadly, “death. People dying, me dying to find out nothing’s really changed. What more can i do? I only have so many lives to give.”

“But you can save so many with one of yours,” the asset tells him, pressing it’s - their lips to Steve’s temple.

“And, with yours too,” Steve brings up, “both of us. Saving lives.” 

“I’m literally an assassin, Steve,” says the asset.

“You saved Natasha,” Steve tells him, “and, I don’t know. Some other people? You saved lives when you took down HYDRA.”

“You took down HYDRA,” they correct him.

“You let me take down HYDRA,” Steve laughs a little, “You could’ve killed me if you wanted to. You let me succeed, just like you let Natasha get away.”

The asset stays silent, and Steve hums, satisfied. 

Then the asset says, “there was a boy.”

Steve looks up, lashes brushing against it’s - their cheek.

“I was supposed to kill the entire family,” the asset tells him, “and everyone else in the house. A rather rich man made HYDRA’s enemy, so they sent me. I murdered the man and his wife in their bedroom. They had a kid, a son, standing in the hallway with the most stubborn expression on his face and a baseball bat in his hands.”

“Uh huh,” Steve says, smiling a little despite the story.

“He was crying, and frightened as fuck, and he stood there and looked like he wanted to set me on fire with his eyes. I knew HYDRA would do a sweep, to clean the house, so I knocked him out and brought him to another city. Said the boy wasn’t present. Said his father sent him away in fear of HYDRA.”

“Why did you do it?” Steve asks, “can I ask?”

The asset laughs a little, “he was so angry, Steve. He had so much fire in him, so terrified but ready to defend himself. Maybe I saw a bit of, well, us, in him. All the willpower of everyone in the Red Room, rightful anger, condensed into that little kid, seven years old - he was a mini you, Steve. He was even a little blond, but he had brown eyes. A captain america in the making. I bet he would’ve started fights in alleys to get rid of injustices. I mean, I don’t know where he is now, but I bet he would’ve been the type.”

Steve gives a breathy laugh, “a sucker for stubborn angry blonds.”

“You bet,” the asset gives Steve another peck on the lips, “I thought if anyone was going to take down the winter soldier, one day, I wanted it to be him.”

“Yeah?” Steve says, an odd twinge in his voice.

Then the asset sits up suddenly, jostling Steve and Lion, and starts rummaging through the bedside stand and pulls out the list.

“Nikolai,” the asset says, “Nikolai. That was the kid’s name.”

“A?” Steve says, sitting up

“That was, I,” it - they turn to Steve, “Steve. Nikolai.”

“Yeah,” Steve brows furrow, “what-”

“Nikolai,” the asset interrupts, slightly more distressed. Steve wasn’t getting it. Of course he wasn’t, they were being vague. But how were they supposed to say it?

That kid, seven years old and crying, was determined to take down the winter soldier. A worthy adversary to concede to. 

The asset is going to let him.

“Steve,” the asset repeats.

“I don’t,” says Steve, then he pauses.

Thinks.

The asset says, “I wanted him to be the one to take down the winter soldier, if it came down to it. I’m, I, no. The asset is the winter soldier.”

“The asset is the winter soldier,” Steve says, face clearing, and they know he’s got it.

“Your name. Nikolai,” Steve says, and then he starts grinning, "that's your name. You figured it out."

“That kid did it,” Nikolai says, throat closing, and then Steve reaches forward and hugs them within an inch of their life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought of this in the shower!   
> But it seems much weirder on paper (screen), but i still love it. What do you guys think?


	21. Chapter 21

“Nikolai,” says Steve, “Nikolai. Nicky! Nick. Oh my god.”

“What?” Nikolai looks up from their book.

“That’s Fury’s name,” Steve makes a funny face, “Nick Fury. That’s so weird.”

Nikolai huffs in amusement, and goes back to the book.

“Nikolai,” Steve says again. 

“Yes?” Nikolai looks up.

“Nothing,” Steve has a weird sappy grin on his face, “I just like saying it.”

“Okay Steve,” they say.

“I’m so happy,” Steve says, “let’s go out. On a date.”

“Right now?” Nikolai asks.

“We should get couple things. A shirt with Steve heart Nikolai on it. That modern texting heart. Lesser than three.”

“Steve did you just say lesser than three?” Nikolai asks.

“Yeah,” Steve nods, grinning, “let’s get malt.”

\--

Flirty cashier is there. She practically swoons at the sight of Steve in those dorky glasses, Nikolai can relate.

Steve pulls out a chair for them, and kisses their cheek like they’re in a eighties romcom. Nikolai expects a convertible and a stereo over Steve’s head, and maybe rocks at their window, except they live together now. Hah. 

Rocks at their bedroom door. Except they sleep together, too. Rocks at the toilet, maybe? 

Or rock candy. Was rock candy invented in the forties? It should have been, right? It was like sugar on a stick. The forties had caramel.

And malt.

Steve bounds over with a tray of milkshakes. He looks super adorable, with a floral snapback and tortoiseshell glasses and a denim jacket. His shirt even had the avengers splashed on it, captain america himself holding the shield in a ridiculous action pose.

“I came here without you,” Steve offers, “one of the times you, uh, freaked out and left. It didn’t feel right without you.”

“I did, too” Nikolai says, “wasn’t quite the same without your ugly mug.”

“You love my ugly mug,” Steve counters lamely.

Nikolai opens their mouth to retort. Thinks. Closes it.

Hm. Hmm.

Oh. That’s.

Hm.

“Oh,” says Steve, rapidly turning red. He ducks his head and fiddles with his cap. “I mean, I don’t, I,” he says, then falls silent. Steve fiddles with his straw.

“Maybe later,” Steve finally says.

“Yeah, i’ll, uh, get back to you in a bit,” Nikolai shrugs awkwardly. 

“We’ll review this at the next meeting?” Steve tries. There’s a bit of Captain America in his voice.

And then they delve into a fit of helpless giggles. Flirty cashier is sighing at them, probably thinking they’re the most adorable couple in the world. That, Nikolai thinks, when Steve reaches over to grab a hand, might not be wrong.

\--

Hawkeye does meet them in prospect park with a camera and a tripod. The prospect, hah, of seeing Steve doing millennial things was the only thing that convinced Nikolai to get out of bed.

“You should parkour,” hawkeye - Clint says, “just shout parkour and do a flip, but badly. Fail, but break your fall.”

“Why?” Steve questions, “that’s stupid. I can do a regular flip.”

“Because it’s funny,” Sam insists, “tons of people can do regular flips. What’s interesting is how people fail.”

“I don’t go to a circus to watch acrobats fall,” Steve argues.

“But that’s a professional circus,” Clint says, “you go there to watch people do inhuman things. The internet is for fails.”

“I can do inhuman things,” Steve says, sounding petulant and cute, “I can flip really well. Why do I have to land on my face?”

“Everyone knows captain america can flip,” Sam says, waving his arms, “there are videos of you flipping online. People want fresh new content, like you failing at flips.”

“Well why do I have to do it?” Steve whines. He honest-to-god whines. Nikolai laughs, and earns a dirty look.

“Because,” Clint says, rolling his eyes like it’s common sense, “if you do break something, you’ll heal the fastest. And A - uh Nikolai can’t do it because they’re supposed to be anonymous, and a random person failing at flips is less fun than captain america failing at flips.”   
Steve pouts. Nikolai would kiss it off him, except they’re in prospect. Anywhere else it would be fine, because Steve and his ridiculous disguises actually worked, because everyone recognized that he was hot but they didn’t recognize that he was hot and also captain america, but everyone in the park recognizes him and Sam. 

“Steve, you should do a flip,” Nikolai tells him, “you should do many flips. A series of flips.”

Steve narrows his eyes at them. “What are you planning.”

“Nothing,” Nikolai says innocently. Steve narrows his eyes further.

“You do a couple of flips,” Nikolai says, “and I’ll sit here, and watch you, while Clint films.”

Steve thinks for a bit. “Not until you tell me what you’re planning,” he says.

“Remember that time I tackled you into the grass while we were running because you were being annoying, and gave you a concussion?” Nikolai says.

“Wait, you what?” Clint says.

\--

“I’m never going ahead with anymore of your plans,” Steve says. He has one leg propped up on the coffee table.

“I didn’t even hit you that hard this time,” Nikolai snorts, “you had less broken bones.

“You stabbed me in the eye with your metal elbow!” Steve shouts, glaring, which would have been marginally more impressive if Steve did not have a bandage over his right eye and a purple bruise on his jaw, “you said you wouldn’t actually hit me this time!”

“You reacted like you were going to punch me, Steve,” Nikolai snorts, “that’s your own fault. I acted on instinct.”

“Well so did I!” Steve retorts, “you ever see a two hundred pound man flying at you-”

“Well you sure weren’t complaining about it yesterday,” Nikolai mutters.

Steve blushes. “Well you didn’t break my femur yesterday,” Steve says lamely, which is once again dampened by the ridiculous grin on his face.

“Tony retweeted the video,” Clint announces from the kitchen, where he’s watching Sam mutter about ridiculous super soldiers and stupid antics while stirring soup on Steve’s stove. “Twitter loves it. Nikolai’s too fast for the camera to catch, so there’s currently a couple of theories on which one of the avengers it might have been. Some people are speculating Natasha, even though you’re clearly a, uh, male like person-”

Nikolai snorts at that. Steve slaps them lightly.

“-because it’s the same maneuver that she used to take down aliens during the chitauri invasion. Huh, twitter’s good.”

“Yeah?” Nikolai calls.

“Oh my god, you said you tackled him in the park last time. Someone posted a video of it. Unknown man matches captain america’s speed and strength.”

“Play it,” Sam says.

Nikolai can’t see the video from where they’re sitting on the couch, and with Steve as a dead weight over their stomach and their broken ankle, they didn’t feel like moving. But Clint and Sam have started laughing.

“Oh my god, that’s the best,” Clint says, “oh wow, there’s an article. Man, the paparazzi is fast. Hey A - uh Nikolai, they’re calling you the newest avenger now. An unidentified sniper was present at the most recent public avengers mission in Europe. Wow, there’s an analysis of the fight. Damn.”

“Oh my god,” says Sam, “hey man, pull out tumblr. They’re going insane.”

“God,” says Steve, squinting at his phone, “Tony’s going crazy, he just sent me a couple of weird selfies of his laughing face.”

“Man, send one of us,” Sam says, emerging from the kitchen, with a goddamn apron and ladle. Clint and Sam squish on either side of Steve’s big blond head, and Nikolai shoves their head under Steve’s chin and sticks their tongue out, and Steve snaps a picture.

Tony replies a minute later, “I’m SO framing that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not going to lie, I spent a whole lot time having to correct myself because I typed asset and used him/it instead of them. Ahh!


	22. Chapter 22

“Hey Kolya,” says Steve, dumping a rather impressive arsenal of assorted knives and guns from his laptop bag onto the coffee table, “I brought you a bunch of toys! Tony and Nat think I need to have more hidden weapons around the house for safety, and I told them it wasn’t really necessary with you here, but Nat says that you’ll agree with her that my apartment is so poorly defended that-”

“What did you just call me?” Nikolai asks. They hop off the couch and stare at Steve.

“Oh,” Steve shrugs a little, “Nat says it’s like a, uh, Russian nickname? Kolya for Nikolai?” He looks a little awkward. “Is that weird? I can stick to Nikolai.”

Nikolai thinks for a bit. “Kolya’s fine,” they tease, “but exclusively for you. If she calls me that, I’m stabbing her.” They pick up a pretty looking knife from the pile for effect, and twirl it.

Steve laughs a little. “I’ll relay the message.”

“Speaking of Russian nicknames,” Nikolai says, “you should call her Natalia.”

“Is that the nickname to Natasha?” Steve asks.

“Nah,” Nikolai says, “Natasha’s the nickname to Natalia.”

“Oh,” says Steve.

“Wait, on second thought, don’t,” Nikolai winces, “Natalia was, ah, her name. Her actual name, I think. At least it was the name she called herself in the Red Room.”

“Ah,” Steve nods, “okay.”

There was a bit of an awkward pause.

“Kolya,” Steve purrs then, reaching an arm out to tug Nikolai closer. They drop the knife on the table and lets themself be pulled along, until they collapse over Steve. Steve wraps his arms around Nikolai and squeezes.

“I heart you,” Steve says, grinning into their hair.

“What?” Says Nikolai.

“I heart you,” Steve repeats, “lesser than three.”

“You do, huh,” Nikolai starts to grin. 

“Yeah,” Steve smothers his face into their head and squeezes so tight that Nikolai was sure they would break a rib if they weren’t a supersoldier.

“I heart you too, Steve Rogers,” Nikolai tells him.

\--

Clint crashes Steve’s house with a broken wrist and a bruise on his forehead, and a dog with one eye and floppy ears.

“His name is Lucky,” Clint says.

“His name is Lion,” Steve brings out Lion from the bedroom and offers it. Lucky sniffs it, then flops down on the floor and starts panting.

“Do I want to know where you got him?” Steve asks, which confirms Nikolai’s suspicion that Clint didn’t have a dog before.

“No, not really,” Clint says peacefully, completely at odds with his bandaged hand and bleeding nose, “will you watch him for a bit though? I have to do stuff.”

Steve shrugs. “Sure.”

Clint dumps a duffel bag of dog things, a laundry list of instructions, and a box of pizza. “Get your own if you’re going to do kinky stuff,” he says to Nikolai when they pick the collar up to turn it in their hands, and Steve flushes to that.

“Whaddya say, Steve,” Nikolai drawls. Clint makes a face at them.

Lucky rolls over on the floor, and starts to chew on one of Lion’s ears.

The week with a dog is largely uneventful. Steve morning runs include Lucky, who proceeds to do adorable things until they take him out again in the evening. Clint comes back with a fractured arm and a broken nose, and also a silly grin when Lucky pounces on him in the doorway.

“Thanks guys,” Clint says.

Long after Clint leaves, Steve turns over in the bed and tugs Nikolai from his sleep.

“What?” 

“What do you think about getting a pet?” Steve asks, eyes wide in the night. 

“What, Lion not good enough for you?” Nikolai asks. They grope under the seats and pull out the stuffed toy, now with one thoroughly chewed ear.

“Nicky,” Steve whines a little.

“Our schedules aren’t exactly the most predictable, Steve,” Nikolai tells him. Sure, a dog or cat would be nice, and taking care of Lucky was wonderful and Nikolai can see themself having an animal with Steve. A live one. But after that mission which kept them away from the apartment killed their house plant - more precisely, kept Steve away from the apartment and Nikolai just felt like tagging along, animals probably weren’t a good idea.

That was so domestic. The thought of it.   
Should Nikolai be worried?

They are a cold blooded assassin, for gods sake.

And yet here they are, talking about getting a pet in captain fucking america’s bedroom. After fucking captain america. Hah.

Steve pouts.

“We can get fish,” Nikolai thinks, “an automatic feeder. And automatic sprinklers for the plants, because we can’t exactly let neighbours in to help us water them.”

“Fish,” Steve echoes, “Bruce has fish. He says they relax him.”

“Yeah, we’ll look at fish,” Nikolai nods, “now let me sleep.”

\--

“Going to raid a HYDRA safehouse later,” Steve says, “with the team. The one at Indiana?”

“Hm,” the Nikolai hums. 

“You’re welcome to join us,” Steve tells them, an arm still hooked around their shoulders. He presses his nose behind their ears and starts kissing at their neck, “like, be included in our briefings and in our actual plans, instead of randomly showing up like it’s a surprise, despite all of us expecting you.”

“What, like an official avenger?” Nikolai snorts, “don’t believe everything the tabloid says, Steve. And besides, that’d make me like, a freelance avenger, emphasis on free. I don’t take requests,” they tease, “I’m a free assassin now. My unpaid internship days are over. I take commissions now, paid commissions - no more murdering people for exposure.”

Steve laughs, still scratching at their scalp, then unwraps himself from Nikolai and starts pulling on pants. Nikolai doesn’t whine, but they do bemoan the loss of contact, and tug at the covers. 

Steve leans over to give them a chaste kiss, then says, “I’ll pretend to not know you’re coming anyways. Play nice and we can explore your exhibitionist kink at a random seedy alley again.”

“Asshole,” Nikolai snarks. Steve laughs again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, sorry for the inactivity! AHHH I fell sick and spent the last 2 days squinting at bright objects and sleeping a lot. This chapter is a bit wonky, but hopefully things pick up after the next one


	23. Chapter 23

South Bend, Indiana, is as boring as Nikolai remembers. 

To be fair, they don’t remember much of it, only bits and pieces such as sitting at the back of a very boring van and snapping the neck of a very boring lab technician. 

The avengers make a spectacle of themselves. 

They can see Steve’s stupid blond head from the rooftop they’re perched on, and they briefly wonder if Steve would let them explore both their exhibitionist kink and their stealth suit kink, before it sees Clint scale the rooftop adjacent. 

Clint waves. 

Nikolai wonders why Natasha didn’t pick a hair dye that made her head look less of a giant head-shaped target. They suppose the captain america shield was forgivable, given that if it got used as a target instead, it would be technically doing its job.

The avengers start to enter the building, foregoing all stealth because if HYDRA didn’t catch the red and golden man glinting in the sunlight outside of their door, then they didn’t deserve to have the Nikolai in the first place. 

Not that they deserved it any more, either ways, but the sentiment was there.

If Nikolai remembered well enough, there was a pretty expansive basement of very evil stuff. They thought the seventy or so floors above ground were pretty skeletal and had some sort of legitimate businesses going on and about, with maybe a sprinkling of evil thrown here and there, but it seemed that HYDRA decided to up their game and increase the evil factor, or perhaps the Nikolai’s memory was not what it used to be.

Hah.

Something explodes. Something else explodes. Nikolai looks through their scope and took out Hydra agents left and right, and more things exploded.

There’s a news van pulling up a couple of streets over.

A lot more things explode, and Clint abandons his post after running out of arrows, joining the fight below. There wasn’t much to do, after gunning down most of who it could see on the upper floors, because obviously the avengers were running below ground where the actual Hydra business was being conducted. 

They decide to scale the building down, because they would lose sight of the fight scene if they went inside the building, but mostly because taking the stairs was boring. 

And then, a goddamn rocket bursts through the entire building. 

Nikolai loses their grip on window ledge and falls ten floors.

The goddamn rocket shatters every single window as it travels straight up, looking a little like a CGI-ed action movie scene that Nikolai isn't sure is real yet, emerging from the ground and blasting through the building and then up to the skies above. It would be almost majestic, if there was not a small, blue figure clinging onto the side of the goddamn rocket.

“What the fuck,” Clint says, a few feet away from Nikolai, joining the avengers as they emerged from what used to be the doorway of the building, looking up at the goddamn rocket with goddamn Steve Rogers clinging onto the goddamn rocket like a goddamn asshole.

What the fuck indeed, Steve.

Three things happen at once. The rocket makes an extremely sharp turn, veering it’s course to aim directly at the crumbling building and the avengers and also the neighboring buildings. Tony as iron man bursts from the hole from the center of the building and collides solidly with the rocket, abruptly changing its course and flying it into some unknown distance, perhaps to put it into the water or maybe against a mountain. And Steve loses his grip on the goddamn rocket.

Nikolai breaks into a run.

Steve is falling, falling, twisting in midair with his arms wrapped around his head. His cowl is missing, which is honestly the worst, Nikolai thinks, Steve is the worst at keeping himself alive.

Nikolai kicks the shield up from Sam’s hands, ignoring his indignant yell and grabs it as it slices through the air, then uses a conveniently positioned car as a jumping pad.

They slam into Steve, somewhere about the fortieth floor of what used to be a building, and knocks the breath out of both of them. Steve instinctively wraps around them, seconds before they hit the ground.

Nikolai twists and lands them shield-first. They roll forward a few feet, before stopping with Steve on top of him.

Steve still has his face buried in Nikolai’s shoulder and his hands gripping their hair tightly. He’s shaking.

“Steve,” Nikolai says, softly, then says it again louder, when the blond gives no indication that he heard.

Natasha is by their side in seconds, hands on her pistol aimed at Nikolai, face guarded and wary. She glares at them and they glare back, like they would launch themself up forty floors to prevent Steve’s oversized head from breaking just to murder him? But Nikolai thinks it's a reflex more than anything, so they'll give her the benefit of doubt.

“Steve,” they say more forcefully, and Steve full out whimpers, and seems to try to burrow deeper into the Nikolai’s shoulder with his face.

The news people crowd closer. Natasha whips around to glare at them, lowering her guns, and Clint scowls. Nikolai stares at a reporter coldly until he takes a wary step back.

Natasha looks like she’s halfway between amused and horrified, and Nikolai appreciate her incredulous expression more if they weren’t sure their face was doing the exact same thing.

Steve starts shaking more. It takes Nikolai an embarrassingly long moment to realize that the stupid dumbass is crying.

“Oh come on,” Nikolai says, softly, they make eye contact with Natasha and starts patting Steve’s back awkwardly. If anything, it just makes Steve bawl harder.

Natasha exchanges a look with Sam, her face telling them that she has no idea what protocol, if any, there is to deal with this.  

This, being Captain America sobbing into the shoulder of the most dangerous and wanted assassin of the 21st century. Good thing they’re wearing their mask. The reporters look suitably conflicted, and Clint scowls at them as he steps in front of a camera. Sam does the same, crossing his arm. 

Speaking of, Nikolai’s vest is getting uncomfortably wet. It might be the tears, the sweat, or Steve’s multiple bullet and stab wounds bleeding onto it.

They stare at Clint, then at Natasha, then at Steve, who doesn’t seem like he was going to move of his own accord.

They pry Steve off gingerly, who is still lightly sobbing. 

“Sorry,” Steve says, the moment Nikolai manages to untangle his fingers from their hair, “sorry, still kinda in shock.”

“Uh huh,” Nikolai says. “What the fuck, Steve.”

“I panicked, okay,” Steve said, sniffing self-righteously, “there was an explosion, and I grabbed the thing nearest to me, and-”

“It turned out to be a rocket?” Nikolai guesses. Steve giggles a bit, a little hysterically, still clinging onto them.

His eyes are red-rimmed and his face is blotchy, and there’s a bit of blood mixing with sweat trailing down his face from his hairline.

Steve is a fucking ugly crier.

Nikolai snorts, earning looks from the peanut gallery, but Steve sniffles and grins back stupidly, like he knows what’s going through their mind.

“Glad you’re back, Cap,” Tony says, the iron man suit flying and landing heavily for effect. The news people scatter, and continue to take pictures, despite Nikolai’s death glare, and the avengers’ obvious back-off body language.

Ugh. There were going to be so many screencaps and memes about this. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep! Remember I said at first that I had the ending "figured out" or something? Well I'm kind of nearing that ending, but I also want to write more because this is fun and expand into a:aou/other stuff. Should I make this into a series?


	24. Chapter 24

Much, much later, after Nikolai shoves Steve off and disappears, completely forgetting about Steve’s promise to debauch them in an abandoned parking lot by a Denny’s or whatnot, because it’s not like they’re going to help with the cleanup anyways, they’re not an avenger or anything, and there’s no real reason to stay and watch Steve bustle around lifting rocks now that there’s no more Hydra agents trying to kill him, for the moment.

Nikolai is right. Fandom goes crazy - their post of the sketch of Steve and them gets a sudden reactivity of several thousand notes, and suddenly more fanart have appeared. Nikolai scowls as they delete several messages asking how they predicted the ship, and for commissions. 

Rumors are popping up over social media, and there is suddenly a lot more speculation about Tony’s much earlier spysassin comment. Some of the winter soldier mission files have cropped up, after the helicarrier info dump. Most of it is useless filler.

Nikolai plays back the interview the press conducted after they ran off. 

“No, the winter soldier is not part of the official avengers team,” Steve says testily on screen, “nor is… he still connected to HYDRA,” Steve winces a little.

“But is the winter soldier not a wanted criminal?” The reporter asks, sticking her mike into Steve’s nose, “are you not going to bring him in?”

“The avengers’ main priority is taking down currently active threats like HYDRA,” Steve says, “and the winter soldier, as of now, does not pose such a threat.”

“So you’re saying that the avengers will only apprehend the winter soldier if he starts murdering innocents again? So you will let him off scot free, despite the multiple crimes he has committed in the past?” The reporter almost sneers.

Nikolai scowls at the screen.

Natasha steps into the frame, smiling icily. “The avengers,” she says, and Nikolai almost shivers at the absolutely cold way she speaks, “aren’t exactly your run-of-the-mill law enforcers, Christine. We deal with active terrorism attacks that threaten the human population on a global scale, and we will handle the winter soldier should he become such a threat, but we don’t exactly have the time to look for one man who currently affects the world as much as an average new-yorker.”

The reporter, Christine, purses her lips and narrows her eyes, but smiles anyways.

“If that's all,” Natasha says, sickly sweet, and stalks off.

Nikolai is a little touched, if they were honest. Aww, Nat.

“Captain Rogers,” Christine says, “do you have any comment on the the relationship between you and the winter soldier? Certainly doesn’t look like a normal work relationship,” she points out, deliberately obnoxious.

“The winter soldier’s relationship with the avengers is strictly professional,” Steve says, and to be fair, it’s not a lie. Nikolai’s relationship with the avengers, was professional. Their relationship with Steve, however.

“If there are no more questions,” Steve says just as Christine’s mouth opens again, “I have to help with the cleanup.”

“Thank you for your time, Captain,” Christine says, evidently not feeling very thankful at all.

Hah. 

\--

“I’m so sick of people,” Steve groans, flopping on the couch.

“Mhm,” Nikolai says, skimming tumblr on their phone. The fanart is certainly interesting. They already bought an adorable chibi print of them and Steve hugging in mid-fall. 

“I got stopped 3 times on the way to the grocery store,” Steve whines, “I just want some milk.”

“I’ll give you some milk,” Nikolai leers.

“No, you ass,” Steve slaps them playfully, “actual milk. I want to eat my cereal.”

“Just eat it dry,” Nikolai snorts. 

“I didn’t die to eat dry cereal,” Steve says.

“There’s nothing wrong with dry cereal,” Nikolai says, slightly offended, “I eat my cereal dry.”

“I lived through the great depression,” Steve tells him, “we ate everything dry or boiled. Let me enjoy the wonders of the twenty first century.”

Nikolai turns back to their phone. Then, “hey check out this cute drawing of us. Should I get it?”

“What?” Steve wrinkles his nose. 

“This,” Nikolai says, shoving the tablet under Steve’s nose. It’s a drawing of Steve and Nikolai standing over a decapitated hydra, Steve holding his shield and a sword, and Nikolai with his metal arm and mask.

Steve looks impressed. “Who drew that?” He asks.

“I don’t know. Some guy on tumblr,” Nikolai shrugs, “it’s cute, right? I’ll get a print of it.”

“A what?” Says Steve.

\--

“I think I need to hold a press conference,” Steve says, turning into the news channel and watching Fox give a step-by-step breakdown of Steve and Natasha’s conversation with one Christine Everhart. 

“Tell the world we’re banging?” Nikolai says.

“No!” Steve says, scandalized. “You’re still a wanted criminal,” he points out, “just to say you’re part of the avengers now.”

“And me being a wanted criminal doesn’t change that,” Nikolai deadpans.

“Natasha’s a wanted criminal in many places,” Steve shrugs, “so’s Clint. We used to be tied to SHIELD, which was tied to the US government, but after SHIELD and HYDRA went down we’re like, a floating vigilante group or something. Putting your name with us just grants you immunity as long as you’re part of us.”

Nikolai thinks for a bit.

“You put thought into this,” they say.

“Bruce thought I should start thinking about it,” Steve shrugs, “He says that the damages Hulk cost put him on a bad list with quite a number of nations, but the Avengers name means that nobody has reached out to him about it - I mean, Tony still paid off the damages, but he wasn’t charged or anything. And there are a couple of places that wouldn’t like to see the black widow or hawkeye back, but they don’t do anything if we’re stopping by for official avengers business.”

“That’s kind of unnecessary,” Nikolai points out, “it’s not like anyone can find me, anyways, or stop me if I wanted to get in or out of a country.”

“Yeah,” Steve shrugs, “I guess.”

Nikolai frowns at the television, then at Steve. They shift over and sit on Steve’s lap, blocking his view of the screen and instead gazing into his eyes.

“What’s wrong,” Nikolai says.

“Nothing,” Steve shrugs again.

They scowl. 

“You secretly like holding press conferences and you’re bummed because I didn’t give you a reason to,” Nikolai guesses. Steve huffs a little in amusement. “No.”

“You want to flush out HYDRA and you want to use me as bait,” they guess again, “so HYDRA will storm avengers tower to find me, and you are prepared.” Steve laughs a little, and pushes at their face, “no!”

“You want to tell the world you love me,” Nikolai teases.

Steve doesn’t laugh.

“Steve?” Nikolai asks, softly. 

“I just remembered Nat and I are going shopping!” Steve screams hysterically. He stands up abruptly, shoving Nikolai to the side, then runs out the door, barefoot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost to the end!


	25. Chapter 25

“Well?” Natasha says, demanding.

“I don’t know, stop bothering me,” Nikolai snaps, with no real heat.

“Steve dragged me out of a training session, without shoes, just so I could shop with him,” Natasha rolls her eyes, taking a sip of her shake, “because he felt bad lying to you. Tell me what’s up.”

“Steve wants to tell the world I’m an official Avenger,” Nikolai says, “because he wants to tell the world he l-lo- uh likes me.”

“And what’s wrong with that?” She glares at them, “unless you don’t love him back?”

Nikolai opens their mouth, then closes it helplessly.

She narrows her eyes, then sits back while staring consideringly. “You haven’t dropped the L-word, have you.”

Nikolai shakes their head.

“Has Steve?” 

Nikolai shakes their head again.

“Well it’s a done deal either ways, isn’t it,” she says, “you love him, and he loves you back, whether or not you’ve said it. Yes?”

“Natashenka,” Nikolai says, only mildly enjoying the sharp slap of emotion across her face, “you of all people know that we don’t love the way everyone else does.”

“First of all,” she says, shock and disdain on her face and she looks at them, “never call me that again. Secondly,” she softens just a little, looking to the side, “yeah, I do.”

“Love is for children,” Nikolai says.

“Hah,” she laughs a little hollowly, “who said that again? Madame Lin?”

“Right before she shot her daughter through the eyes,” Nikolai nods.

“You’re smitten, though,” Natasha observes, “maybe we’re not normal, but you do love him, in your own way. Or whatever you feel that’s as close to love as you can get.”

Nikolai regards her warily.

“We can’t ever love like normal people do,” Natasha continues, oddly gentle, “and I think that whatever part of me that can has been lost for a long time, and I won’t get it back. You, too. But if you can get as close to that love as you can? I’d say go for it.”

Nikolai looks at her.

Natasha avoids his gaze, drinking from her shake again. This conversation makes her uncomfortable.

“I don’t think I’ll die for Steve or anything like that,” Nikolai finally says, ‘but I’ll do stupid stuff for him.”

“You already do stupid stuff for him,” Natasha points out.

“Thanks, Natashenka,” Nikolai grins.

Natasha shoots him a look of disgust. “Ugh,” she says, “I hate talking about feelings.”

“You have more people experience than I do,” Nikolai shrugs, “who else do I go to?” It’s not the best declaration of friendship and trust, but Natasha gets it.

“Well I guess I’ll have to bother you when I find some stupid blond asshole,” Natasha snarks back, clearly sarcastic, but it’s an acknowledgement.

“Aww, sorry, but I don’t like to share,” Nikolai says, “besides, isn’t there another stupid blond asshole on the team?”

“We are not having this conversation,” Natasha narrows her eyes.

“Yet,” Nikolai corrects.

\--

Nikolai hates Christine Everhart.

The press conference is held in a conference room in the avengers tower, invitation extended to a reporter from each major news channel. Steve, Tony and Natasha are present. Nikolai decides to watch from Steve’s couch, Lion on their lap.  

“So you’re saying,” Christine says, getting her annoying face into Steve’s neutral expression, “that the winter soldier should be pardoned for all his crimes because of his affiliation with the avengers?”

“We’re saying,” Natasha leans forward, and Nikolai smugly notes Natasha’s dislike of her as well. “That the winter soldier, being a part of the avengers, will be granted temporary diplomatic immunity should there be a situation that requires the avengers to-”

“-assemble,” Tony interrupts, smugly. Natasha raises an unamused eyebrow.

“And if there is an absence of such a situation? Is the winter soldier not going to stand trial and be judged for his crimes?” Christine says.

“If you can find the winter soldier,” Tony says, peering over his sunglasses. Nikolai wonders why he dislikes Christine too. A quick google search shows that they had an alleged one-night-stand before. Hah. The sex must have been pretty bad.

“The avengers don’t keep tabs on the winter soldier,” Tony shrugs, “we all kind of come and go. We just show up to save the world if you need us.”

“Is it not dangerous for one man like the winter soldier to run around unaccounted for?” Someone else in the crowd demands.

“How different is that from anyone else in the avengers?” Tony shrugs, “I’ve killed thousands of people with my weapons. I’m not even going to mention black widow there.” He’s not so bad, Nikolai thinks. 

“I was a soldier in the war,” Steve speaks up, “I’ve killed more people than you’ve ever met.”

“Let’s not talk about hawkeye or the hulk,” Tony waves his hands, “are we done?”

“Last question,” Miss Potts. Pepper says, from the podium.

“What’s the winter soldier’s name?” Someone shouts.

Natasha and Tony turn to Steve, who starts to look awkward.

“Uh,” says Steve, “Nick.”

“Like Nick Fury?” Someone else asks.

“That’s an extra question,” Steve points out, “uh, no. Nick Fury is black. The winter soldier is not.”

There’s a snicker from the audience. 

"Bye," Tony waves to the crowd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAAAHHHHH.   
> I think next chapter might be the last for this fic? Not sure how it's going to play out (in my head)!!!


	26. Chapter 26

Steve was making coffee. Nikolai watched him fiddle with the machine and pour out two cups before saying, “let’s go out.”

“Seriously?” Steve waves a mug incredulously, and drops a sugar cube inside. “Right now? Not five minutes ago, before I made goddamn coffee for your ungrateful ass-”

“Yeah,” Nikolai says, “let’s go out.”

Steve shoots them a fond look. “Yeah ok. Are you going to tell me where you’re taking me?”

“No,” Nikolai says.

They end up at Petco. Steve grasps Nikolai’s hand so hard that a normal person would probably get a sprained wrist, and they stand in front of the rows of fish tanks and gaze at the colorful blobs swimming around.

“We’re getting a fish,” Steve says softly.

“Or two,” Nikolai shrugs, and bumps his shoulder.

“You’re getting me a fish,” Steve looks over. He looks unnecessarily emotional, like he’s going to cry in the middle of Petco with the evening bustle of small children and disgruntled parents and other couples adopting pets for their forever homes.

And here’s what they’re doing with Steve, isn’t it? Getting them a fish, or two. For Steve’s house, except they can’t just call it Steve’s house anymore.

Steve and Nikolai’s house. Sounds cheesy.

“I’m getting us a fish,” Nikolai corrects.

Steve looks positively giddy, like he’s going to cry or swoon. Doubled with the tortiseshell glasses frames, it’s too adorable.

“Steve,” Nikolai says softly. 

Steve whirls around and grabs Nikolai by the hips and kisses them to an inch of their life in the middle of fucking Petco.

There’s a salesperson gazing at them with wide eyes and a blush when Steve lets them go. “Um,” says Steve. “I’m so sorry for staring,” says the salesperson, “you two were adorable - uh, can I help you?”

\--

Steve and Nikolai bring home two goldfish - one orange, one black, and a whole lot of fish supplies. The tank is set up at the living room and too many plants are put in.

“What do you want to name them?” Nikolai asks, after the goldfish are exploring the little model of the wreck of the Valkyrie that Nikolai was delighted to find on one of the aisles displaying other miniature underwater wrecks of things. 

“Tiger,” Steve says with finality.

“Excuse me?” Nikolai says.

“Ti,” Steve points to the black goldfish, “ger,” he points to the orange one.

“What?” Nikolai says, again.

“Tigers are orange and black,” Steve shrugs.

“You’re naming our fish Ti and Ger,” Nikolai says incredulously.

Steve shrugs, “the dog’s named Lion. So now we have Tiger. Ti, and Ger. It’s cute.”

“Says you,” Nikolai mutters, like it’s an insult. Steve beams. 

“Let’s take a picture,” Steve says, “selfie! We can send it to the team!” He squishes the side of his cheek to Nikolai’s and squats in front of the tank, and then forwards the picture to a group chat named AVENGNERDS. 

“OMG,” the reply comes almost instantly from a contact named irondaddy. “Can I be godfather?”

“BABIES,” says the original bird-themed superhero, “WHAT ARE THEIR NAMES?”

“They chose their own contact names,” Steve says embarrassedly, “Tony overrode me from changing it.”

“Probably something weird,” says the more awesome bird-themed superhero, “Steve named his dog Lion. Unless Nikolai got naming rights?”

Nikolai plucks the phone from Steve’s hands. “The names are Ti and Ger,” they type, “evidently I had no naming rights.”

“I don’t name things bad,” Steve protests.

“If I let you pick my name, I might have ended up with Leopard,” Nikolai deadpans, “or Cheetah.”

“Nicky!” The original bird-themed superhero says, “my man - person! My person! Person! JARVIS, I said person - wait did you already send that?”

“That’s why i’m the more awesome one, Clint,” The more awesome bird-themed superhero types.  

“Shut it, Wilson. I’m in the middle of an op now. I don’t have free hands to type like - SHIT HOLD ON I GOTTA-”

“HAH,” Irondaddy types.

“You better not be distracting hawkeye in the middle of this op, boys and Nikolai,” widowbites types, “nice fish, by the way.”

“Thanks,” Steve takes the phone back and types, “I’ll take your advice, Nat.”

“What advice,” Nikolai manages to say, before Steve kisses them again.

“Steve,” Nikolai says, eyebrow raised, the same time Steve says, “I love you.”

“What?” Nikolai says.

\--

“Was that Natasha’s advice?” Nikolai asks, "saying the L-word?"

“She says that both of you were weird with the love thing, because of the Red Room,” Steve says, face red, “but, uh, I just. I just wanted you to know. That I love you.”

Nikolai says, voice gentle, “Steve.”

“You don’t have to say it back,” Steve says softly, face impossibly crimson, “Love’s not an exchange, it’s a gift. I mean, you don’t have to say it back or give anything back - I’m not saying I don’t want you to, ah, love me back or anything! It’d be nice, if you did, I’d like that a lot! But I’m saying you don’t have to, and you don’t have to feel bad about it, or anything, because-”

Steve takes a deep breath, then opens his mouth again, to continue the rambling.

Nikolai takes the chance to stick their metal fist into Steve’s mouth.

Steve blinks.

Nikolai stares back.

Steve, mouth around metal knuckles, blinks again.

“You need to shut up, Steve,” Nikolai says softly. They remove the hand.

Steve blinks, eyes wide.

“I can’t, not now,” Nikolai shrugs, “Nat said, she said - she said that, whatever I feel is as close to love as I can get. Well, I think she might be wrong,” and Steve’s face drops but they smile a little, “I think I can get a little closer. And I want to try.”

“Yeah?” Steve brightens up.

“Yeah,” Nikolai says, and because their brain to mouth filter doesn’t quite work in emotional settings, they also say, “I’m glad I look like Bucky. So you decided not to kill me.”

“Nikolai,” Steve giggles a little despite the morbid nature of the joke, “you don’t look that alike.”

“Are you joking?” Nikolai says, “are you joking right now?”

“Serious,” Steve laughs, “you have a dimple here,” he says softly, pressing a warm hand to Nikolai’s left cheek, “and your nose is bent a little more to the left.”

“That could be because of the number of times I’ve broken it,” Nikolai says.

“You have a birthmark, here,” Steve presses another hand to Nikolai’s navel, then, “your hair is longer.”

“You ass,” Nikolai laughs a little, “get off me.”

“Your eyes have more grey in them,” Steve leans forward so their noses touch, “Icy. Like,” he pauses, thinks, continues, “a snowdrift. An avalanche. Ice.”

“So what? It reminds you of falling?” Nikolai says, corners of their mouth dipped down.

“Your best friend, Bucky Barnes, falling to his death? Am I a reminder of that? You, in the Valkyrie, falling to yours-”

“Will you catch me?” Steve interrupts, “if I fall, will you catch me?”

“Steve,” Nikolai says weakly.

“Everything reminds me of Bucky,” Steve says a little self deprecatingly, “there are books and television shows and museum exhibits dedicated to reminding me of Bucky. You,” he gives Nikolai a light peck on the lips, “remind me of caramel,” peck, “Ikea,” peck, “a dog named Lion,” peck, “chocolate malt,” peck, “Movies and popcorn and candy,” peck, “visiting Peggy with flowers,” peck, “sex in inappropriate places-”

“I get it,” Nikolai huffs a little in amusement, lips curling into a grin. Steve kisses them again.

“Falling, sure,” Steve says, “but. In a different way. Maybe I jumped this time.”

“Nat says you jumped off a plane without a parachute,” Nikolai says.

“But you’ll catch me, right?” Steve asks again.

“Steve-” Nikolai says. Stops. “I-”

“You already did, jerk,” Steve says, pulling away so that he can look into Nikolai’s eyes, and Nikolai pulls him back, desperately grabbing at cloth and hair and anything. They think of jumping off the helicarriers and plunging into the water and hauling Steve up by the strap of his shield harness, their metal arm digging into wet cloth and flesh and dropping him onto the muddy riverbank of the Potomac, and Nikolai thinks of running full speed and leaping into the air with the shield and slamming into Steve midair so they could bring them to a roll when they hit the ground, metal arm bracing Steve’s stupid blond head and the shield over their own.

“Oh,” Nikolai says brokenly, so they wraps their arms around Steve’s torso and catches him and holds him tight and never wants to let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG this is the last chapter of this fic guys! AHHH! Ending's different from what I expected when I started off this fic!!! Thanks for being part of this journey with me. I'll update my other fics before coming back and continuing this series!!!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Would try to update regularly! Already have the end planned out, just need to start typing the middle.


End file.
